


Laudanum and Lyrium

by w0rdinista (Niamh_St_George)



Series: Amelle Hawke [4]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Gen, Wild West
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 136,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh_St_George/pseuds/w0rdinista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Don’t get involved,</em> was what her Daddy always told her.  <em>Don’t get involved, Mely—folks’ll turn you in soon as smile at you, once they figure out what you are.</em>  But Amelle "Miracle Mely" Hawke isn't very good at not getting involved.  (Wild West AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't precisely a kmeme reply, though the seed was planted during a conversation in which people were talking about a Wild West AU prompt on the Dragon Age kmeme. Either way, the idea took hold and wouldn't let go. :)
> 
> Much thanks to Loquaciousquark for keeping an eye on my commas and my canon-to-AU inversions. :)

_Don’t get involved_ , was what her Daddy always told her.  _Don’t get involved, Mely—folks’ll turn you in soon as smile at you, once they figure out what you are._   ‘Course, it was easy for her daddy to follow his own advice now. Hard for a dead man to get involved with anything or anybody.  

All the same, it was good advice, and more often than not, she followed it.  It didn’t always make her happy, but it kept her alive, and alive was just as good as happy.  Hell, alive was usually _better_ than happy—unhappy was more temporary than dead.  And even if it didn’t feel like it sometimes, bored was better than dead, too.

So she kept her distance, letting Varric and Isabela scout the towns they stopped in; they always came back with useful information and gossip in equal parts (sometimes the two overlapping), letting her know who needed what they’d likely be asking for, and who really _didn’t._   And if sometimes it happened that her tonics worked and healed the people sick enough to need healing, well, that was just the Maker at work in His mysterious ways, wasn’t it?

And still she didn’t get involved.  She stayed in the back of the wagon, mixing _potions_ and calling them _tonics,_ watering some down with water, some with gin, and some with laudanum for a little more kick than the rest.  And when people got caught in her partners’ net of tantalizing promises too good to be true, she gave them what they needed, even if it wasn’t exactly what they _wanted_.  Then they unhitched the horses and made off for the next town, never leaving behind so many unsatisfied customers that they’d be unwelcome the next time they came around.  She let people wonder if she was a charlatan, because things would be so much better for her if she _was_ , and the money wasn’t too bad, when there was money, like now.  And when she went back to the farm at the end of a trip, she had enough coin for Mama to patch whatever needed patching and pay whoever needed paying before it all started over again.

All this aside, as Amelle “Miracle Mely” Hawke measured out dried elfroot on an old set of brass scales, it struck her just how damned _bored_ she was.  She brushed the withered leaves into a mortar even older than the scales and leaned back, grimacing as the muscles in her shoulders reminded her how long she’d been hunched over.  Her rear end likewise reminded her how long she’d been sitting on the hard wooden bench.  With a breath, she sent a stream of cool healing mana to the aching muscles, rolling her shoulders and then twisting in a stretch.

Just then, one of the horses nickered softly—possibly Tango or Cedric, it didn’t sound like Falcon—and her head jerked up with the noise as she closed her eyes, listening hard. Moving slowly, she reached out with her right hand until her fingers closed around smooth handle of the revolver lying at the end of the bench.  She stood, taking slow, cautious steps around the cluttered wagon, lifting the gun and cocking it with a loud _click,_ just as a pair of broad hands appeared, and a short, broad body levered itself into the wagon.

Varric looked up, blinked once, then let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head and hauling himself further into the wagon.  “Oh, please.  You and I both know if you were going to kill anyone, Hawke, it wouldn’t be with that.”

Amelle uncocked the gun and lowered it.  “Nobody questions the cause of death in a body filled with holes.  You taught me that.”  Gunshots also brought people running, and when they found a dead man and a hysterical young woman with a smoking gun falling from trembling, nerveless fingers, no one tended to ask questions.  

Isabela had taught her _that._

“True enough.  Come on, we’ve got to see a man about a dog. Bring your bag.”

Holstering the weapon, she grabbed the worn leather satchel and drab grey cloak hanging from a nearby peg, doused the lantern, and swung herself out of the wagon, following Varric.  The wagon was safe enough where it was; her companions knew more than a thing or two about safeguarding valuables.  “Where’s ‘Bela?” she asked, huddling down into her cloak; the night was surprisingly cold, the air dry.  “Keeping both man and dog company?”

“You could say that.”

It was late, and the small town was dark, the only lights and noise coming from the saloon, lanterns making the windows glow yellow as raucous laughter danced out into the cold night.  She made out the tinny strains of a piano playing an old dwarven drinking song.  Varric softly whistled along as they walked.

The houses got smaller and more depressing the further away from town they got, until they reached a cluster of tiny structures; they weren’t quite shacks, but calling them anything else would have been far too generous.

“Miners,” Varric supplied brusquely.

“It’s a bit off the beaten path, even for you.  How’d you find them?”

“Talked to some of the right people, and a few of the wrong ones.  People’ll talk about all sorts of things when they’re two hands up and a few bottles in.”

“Pity, he didn’t stay that way for long,” came a smoky voice that blended all too well with the shadows, even as the woman eased herself out of it.  The faint moonlight made the gold at her throat glint, but little else.

“Good night for cards, then, Isabela?” Amelle asked.  

Her grin was a smug one.  “Is it my fault I find so many people who are so bad at holding on to their own money?”

“It’s not your _fault_ , Rivaini,” Varric replied easily, “it’s a damned gift is what it is.”

“You say the sweetest things,” said Isabela, easing further into the moonlight.  She jerked her chin at the shack she’d been waiting by.  “Go on in, kitten.  You’re expected.”

Amelle approached the cabin.  It wasn’t often sickness came with a smell.  The scent of rot, of infection, of something beyond mere illness, but that of _disease,_ of a _thing_ that seemed to crawl and slither into every crevice and lurk like death itself, draining love, joy, and, worst of all, _hope_ from a room until nothing remained but fear, desperation, and maybe, just maybe, if the sick were lucky, defiance.

The tiny one-room shack stank of death, even before she opened the rickety plank door.  A thin blond woman sat hunched on a stool pulled up to a bed barely wide enough to fit two.  She looked up as Amelle entered, her narrow face and sunken bloodshot eyes almost skeletal, her thin lips pale and cracked.  Her hair was pulled back into a too-tight bun, which only served to make her eyes look even more hollow.

“I’m… here to help,” she told the woman.

“Don’t know how anyone can help.  They told me,” she said, jerking her chin at the door, “they told me they knew someone what could, but…”

The woman stood, revealing a swollen bump beneath her clothes.  Pregnant and living in anywhere near a lyrium mine was a bad idea.  Pregnant and living right damned on top of one was the _worst_ idea.  Amelle thought she knew what the problem was, until the woman stepped aside, revealing who lay on the bed.

The man was thin and pale, every bit as much as his wife, but his dark auburn hair, made darker by sweat, gave his skin a gray tint.  A dusting of freckles stood out on his face, and though he was clearly full grown, the effect made him look absurdly young. The sweat slicking his hair poured off of him, soaking the thin shirt he wore, dampening the threadbare linens.  He trembled with fever — the heat radiating off him was beyond imagining. Amelle could feel the warmth even before she brushed her fingers across his forehead.

This man wasn’t just ill; he was dying.

“My husband,” she said, her voice tearing on the word.  “Broke his leg in the mines.  Don’t think they set it right.  He started comin’ down sick three nights ago.”

“How long ago did he break his leg?”

“Six days now.”

A poorly set leg was bad enough, but…

Amelle licked her lips, not wanting to ask the next question.  “And how long has he been working in the lyrium mines?” 

“Three months.  His… uncle got him the job.”

 _Long enough to addle his brains,_ she thought, barely remembering not to let her expression reflect her thoughts.  Long enough to do real damage once he strayed too far from the mines for too long.  She rubbed her fingers firmly between her eyebrows, looking more closely at the dying man.

 _I don’t know if I can save him._   The words were on the tip of her tongue, and nearly came out—nearly, until she saw the raw, naked _hope_ on the young wife’s face.  “How long have you been married?” she asked gently, sure she didn’t want to know the answer.

The woman looked down, and her expression softened so that Amelle could see that beneath the grit and grime and worry and fear, she was quite pretty, or had been, once.  “Six months now.”

Damn.

And against her common sense and better judgment, _I don’t know if I can save him_ turned into, “Well.  Let’s see what we can do then, all right?”

 _Don’t get involved, Mely,_ she could almost hear her father say.

 _I’ll thank you not to get involved either, Daddy,_ she thought, cracking her knuckles and taking a seat on the stool the woman had left.

#

The hard soles of her boots scraped softly across the wagon floor as Isabela helped her navigate the path to the bedrolls, and the last thing Amelle remembered before sliding into sleep and dreams, was Isabela’s voice whispering oh, so sweetly in her ear, “I hope you didn’t give away _all_ our money tonight, kitten.  Or at least not my share.”

Her dreams were filled with dark passages and faint whispers, twisted with the vaguest sensation she was meant to be looking for something, but she didn’t know _what,_ leaving her with the feeling that she’d forgotten something important, but had no idea what it was, except that it was _vital_ she find it— 

And then Amelle rolled over, and a sliver of early morning sunlight pricked red through her closed eyelids, dragging her from slumber, leaving her with only the faintest impressions of the dream, crushed under bone-deep weariness from the last night’s expenditure of magic.  The exercise wasn’t entirely an altruistic good deed, but rather a sort of… enlightened self interest.

The best, most useful aspect to Varric and Isabela taking Amelle out in the middle of the night to heal a man whose bone had been set badly, an act that involved both purging his body of infection _and_ lyrium sickness, then re-setting the bone and giving it all a little _push_ of magic just to start the bone knitting back together again, was not that the whole affair left her so damned magic-drained that she had to be half-carried back to the wagon.  It was that she’d pass any test or trial any mage-hunter set her to.

The most convincing way to hide was in plain sight.

So Amelle’s mana levels would hover between “negligible” and “rock bottom” while they peddled their wares, and her disguise would remain intact.  It had worked well so far, simply another element added to the whole of her disguise.

The problem was the whole affair left her exhausted.  She lay in her bedroll trying to find the wherewithal to heave her body to her feet, but none was coming. It had been too long since she’d slept in a proper bed, under a proper roof, and a sudden, lancing bolt of homesickness stabbed through her breast.  Soon.  She’d be going home soon.  Soon she’d get her narrow little bed, the warm feather mattress sinking with her weight.  Soon she’d inhale and breathe in more than dust and the stink of whiskey, urine, and unwashed everything that seemed to permeate every larger town they stopped in.  She longed for the scent of sweet hay, her mother’s bread, the tiny flower garden, the clean scent of the breeze coming in off the fields.  

For all she was _good_ at it, Amelle wasn’t made for a life like this.  She liked having roots.  

Slowly she pushed herself up.  It was dim inside the wagon, but morning was encroaching — her eyes went back to the worn piece of canvas and the light that had woken her up already.  She sat up slowly, grimacing; her head pounded with a merciless tattoo and nothing short of straight whiskey or Varric’s coffee would beat it back.  

At the moment, the former dumped into the latter sounded like the best idea.

Moving stiffly, she crawled from her bedroll and crept out of the wagon.  Isabela still slept soundly inside, but Varric’s bedroll was already neatly stowed away.  The dwarf sat by a crackling fire, scribbling in a leatherbound book; Amelle marveled a moment the way Varric’s hand moved so quickly across the page, as if he could barely keep up with the words forming in his mind. 

“Coffee’s ready,” he said, never looking up from the page.  Amelle rummaged in one of the packs until she found a battered tin cup into which she poured a generous helping of steaming dark liquid, adding a similarly generous helping of sugar—Amelle didn’t have all that many vices, but sugar was one thing she insisted on; Varric’s coffee was only palatable as long as it was as sweet as it was thick.  She settled down next to him as he wrote, and a few more moments passed in silence before the pen stopped and Varric, evidently satisfied, closed the book with a nod.

“So what the hell was that last night, Hawke?” he asked, bracing his arms behind him and sending her a speculative look.  “Should be enough you give folks your mana free of charge.  You’re giving away money, too?”

She wrinkled her nose.  “It was just a little bit—Maker, leave it to Isabela to make it sound like I’ve given away the Queen of Antiva’s damn fortune.”  Stirring the coffee with a bent spoon, Amelle explained, “There’s a cleansing tonic she needed to keep the infection at bay—it’s not that common a potion, so I didn’t have any with me.  You know as well as I lyrium does a job on the poor bastards—our man last night was damn near impossible to heal—and the wife’s going to need more help than I could give her.  I left her the recipe and a little money for the supplies.”  She took a drink from the cup and grimaced.  “It was hardly our whole savings.”

“Speaking of our savings,” Varric said, refilling his own mug and taking a drink with nary a grimace, “it looks to me like we could probably head back Lothering way after today’s haul.”  He shrugged.  “Good chance of it, anyway.”  At her immediate and obvious smile, he chuckled.  “Yeah, thought you might feel that way.  What’s the state of our stock?”

“More than enough.  I was topping off our stores last night when you turned up and dragged me off.“

“You mean to say,” a voice came from the dark confines of the wagon, “kitten and her bleeding heart _didn’t_ give it all away last night?”  

“Just your share, ‘Bela,” Amelle tossed back, grinning.  

The woman in question climbed out of the wagon, her face no less welcoming than a stormcloud.  “Do not joke with me before I’ve had my coffee, kitten,” she announced, pouring herself a cup, to which she then added several generous slugs of whiskey before taking a long drink.  “And _never_ joke about my share of the money.”

#

Mining towns.  He’d ridden through nothing but mining towns for two days now, with more ahead of him.

Fenris grimaced, hands tightening on his reins.  Had it not already been far too long since Agrippa had been watered, he’d have been more than content to pass through without stopping.  But he hadn’t stopped at any of the last three settlements he passed; to forego rest any longer would have been both foolish and dangerous.  He hadn’t lived this long by being _foolish._ Better to stop now, let his mare cool down and rest for a time than risk her throwing a shoe or worse.  A short rest was better than no rest at all for the animal, even if any pause in the journey would be far from restful for Fenris.

All the same, he was thoroughly tired of mining towns.  Few of them were large enough to suit his needs, and too many of them attracted the very people he’d spent too long trying to avoid.  Ostagar was larger than most, he supposed, but not large enough that he could be lost in it.  It would do for a brief respite—one night, but no more than that.

Within an hour, he had a room in a shabby-but-clean hotel, and Agrippa was set up in a stall with dry hay, fresh feed, and clean water.  He rubbed down the mare, checking the hooves for stones and wear when he noticed a long thin gash along her right rear fetlock; she snorted her displeasure when he began prodding at the shallow wound.  Ointment, then, which he’d been out of since Gwaren, and only luck and care had kept him from needing any until now.  He sighed; better to purchase his own than presume to use anything the hotel stables kept on hand. It was with this thought in mind that Fenris made his way down the winding dirt road that rather grandly called itself “Main Street,” eyes sharp for a general store.

What caught his eye first—or his _ear,_ rather—wasn’t a shop at all, not in the strictest sense.

“Step right up, ladies and gentlemen!” a woman’s clear, strong voice called out, a sharp, cold breeze carrying it well up the road.  “No need to push, no need to crowd, plenty of room for everyone!  Step right up and behold the miraculous Miracle Mely Hawke’s Miracle Tonics!”

A wagon backed up to a makeshift platform upon which stood a woman in a modestly-cut gown the color of claret.  A vividly painted sign hung outside the wagon, and flanking her on either side of the platform were crates upon crates of bottles and jars.

A small crowd had already gathered, and as Fenris drew nearer, the woman in red held a bottle aloft as she smiled brightly and addressed both the people who’d already drawn near, and those—like him—who hovered on the edges, not quite ready to commit to joining any sort of audience.

“I’ve got ointments,” she called out, a grin never entirely leaving her face, “I’ve got liniments—by the Maker, I’ve got every _ment_ you could possibly want!”

“Have you got peppermints?” a voice in the crowd yelled out.  A stocky blond dwarf with a crossbow slung over his shoulder rocked onto his heels and smirked up at her.

“Every mint but that, good sir!” she replied with a laugh.  Arms sweeping wide, she walked from one end of the platform to another, attention solidly on the crowd before her.  “Why, I’ve got tonics to tame your troubles, elixirs to ease your aches, and a salve for every sorrow. A promise, a hope, and a cure in every bottle!  Hand-crafted and approved by yours truly, Miracle Mely Hawke, at your service.”  She dipped into a low curtsy, the red skirt swinging out and revealing a flutter of white petticoats beneath.

Straightening, she spun on the ball of her foot to walk to the other end of the platform, gesturing grandly.  “These tonics will rejuvenate, activate, facilitate and alleviate!  My ointments will bust bunions and halt headache.”  Hawke’s expression went suddenly sly as she sent a broad wink down to the growing crowd.  “Why, my Empress Elixir was crafted and brewed for Celine herself to snag every last royal lover to cross Orlais’ borders.”

A dark woman, her long hair held back by a blue scarf looked unconvinced.  “But does it _work?_ ”

Hawke’s expression went to one of shock, tempered with amusement and affront.  “Does it _work_ , she asks!  My good woman, my Empress Elixir will render you _captivating_!  Tantalizing!  Enticing! And alluring!”

The woman, who Fenris doubted had any practical _need_ for any sort of “love potion,” rolled her eyes and tossed her head, unimpressed.  “Hmph.”

“Don’t believe me, my dear?” the woman asked playfully.  She plucked a small bottle from a straw-filled crate.  The liquid inside glinted a deep jewel-toned purple as she waggled it at the other woman before gently tossing it to her.  “First bottle, free of charge.”  

He watched, never venturing closer than the furthest outer edges of the crowd.  He’d seen other such displays before, in towns larger than Ostagar; the wares being peddled were usually hardly any better than mineral oil and camphor—a single bottle “cure-all” that wasn’t fit to oil a saddle.

“And you, sir!” Hawke’s voice rang out again.  “At the back with the glare black enough to match your hat _and_ your coat.  What is it you’re looking for?”

He realized, belatedly, she was addressing _him._

“I’m sure you have nothing I require,” he replied coolly, lifting his gaze defiantly to meet her laughing eyes.

“You sound so _certain_ ,” she replied lightly.  “There’s _nothing_ in my humble wares you might find use for?”  Her grin widened.  “Try me.”

Fenris suddenly became aware of the eyes on him as prickling heat crept up the back of his neck.  “You have nothing I can use,” he told her.

“Hmm.”  She tapped her chin thoughtfully.  “And if I disagree?”

“You may disagree all you like,” he retorted.  “It hardly changes the material fact that you have nothing I need or want.”

Hawke’s expression was one of genuine amusement—seemed so, at least.  “Oh, now you’ve cut me to the quick, good sir.  Nothing you need?  Well, perhaps.  But nothing you _want?_   Well, that’s just insulting.”  Before he could reply, she swept to the edge of the platform nearest him, and crouched down.  “What say we make it interesting, hmm?  How about I _guess_?”

He blinked.  “I beg your pardon?”

“I’ll guess,” she said again.  “I’ll guess at your aches and ailments, and if I am at any point _correct…_ ”

“ _If_ you are correct—something I most firmly doubt—then… yes,” he conceded, “I will make use of your… wares.”

She straightened up, a beaming smile lighting her face, and clapped her hands once.  “Excellent!”  With that, and with the help of several nearby onlookers, she hopped down from the platform.  The crowd was only too happy to part for her, and she was by his side in seconds.  Strangely, Hawke had seemed taller, almost larger than life standing upon that makeshift stage that Fenris was surprised to discover she was shorter than he by inches.

At this distance, too, he saw the dress was indeed well made, but worn in spots, and expertly patched, embellished with buttons here, a swath of lace or a velvet frill there to hide the wear.  Her features were well-molded, her nose long and straight, her chin a narrow point beneath her heart-shaped face; her short brown hair—easily as short as any man’s and swept to the side—seemed to suit her. There was paint upon her cheeks, but beneath she was parchment pale.  The only pieces of her that did not change with distance were Hawke’s eyes—a laughing, dancing green—and her smile, which seemed now to widen at his discomfiture, though there was nothing malicious about it.  On the contrary, she appeared overjoyed that he was playing along.

“How many guesses do you intend to take?” he asked as she circled, studying him, laughing eyes suddenly serious, the tip of one finger tapping pensively against her lips.

“Three, I think, would be sporting.  Don’t you agree?”

“Three guesses?”

She gave a sly wink, her smile turning crooked, as if they were conspirators.  “Unless you want to give me more.”

“Three is more than sufficient,” he said stiffly.

“Spoilsport,” she murmured, just under her breath.

“You cannot expect me to make it easy for you to part me from my coin,” he replied, just as quietly.

She let out a soft _hmm._ “And _you_ can’t expect that any _part_ of this is actually _easy_.”  After circling him three, perhaps four times, she faced him, a pensive look still etched on her features.  “Do you suffer from saddle sores, my good man?”

She’d noted the dust upon his legs and boots.  Fair enough.  Still, Fenris shook his head.  “I do not.”

“Pity,” the dark-haired woman drawled, “I’d rub him dow—”

 _“Thank you_ , _”_ the woman said, her tone edging into warning. “That will do, miss. It’s hardly fair for me to get help from bystanders.”  She leaned in closer, looking hard at his face and Fenris fought the urge to lean back as she scrutinized him.  “Fatigue?” she murmured, half to herself.  “Oh, no, that’s too easy.”  Then she looked up and met his eyes, saying quietly, “Though I suspect it still applies.”

“If that is your second guess, I have no need for a restorative.  It is nothing a full night’s sleep won’t fix.”

She took a step back then, looking him over one more time— _slowly—_ from head to heel.  Indeed, Fenris felt as if Hawke’s gaze were boring _through_ him, taking in every inch, every smear of dust, every streak of sweat.  “Nug Oil Liniment,” she announced suddenly.  “Best poultice you’ll find this side of the Frostback Mountains, made with frostrock from those very hills.  Soothes sore muscles and heals minor cuts and scrapes.”

He shook his head.  “I haven’t any—”

“Not for you,” she interrupted gently, taking his hand and indicating the faint streak of blood across his knuckles and the bits of hay and horsehair clinging to his clothes.  “For your four-legged friend.”

He brushed some hay from his sleeve and frowned at her, nodding at the blood.  “And you’re so certain that’s from a horse?”

She shrugged slender shoulders.  “Well, I had a suspicion, certainly.  And I suppose that could just as easily have come from a dog, or a cat,” she countered, dimpling at him. “But it was _you_ who told me it’s a horse.”  

With a wink, Hawke bobbed another curtsy again and strode again to the wooden platform, climbing back upon it.  This time he followed her, watching as she rummaged around in one of the crates a moment before pulling a jar free from the straw and tossing it down to him.  The contents were thick, viscous, and blindingly white with a pale blue sheen and a chill Fenris felt through the glass.  

“You’re certain this will work,” he said, turning the jar over in his hands and looking up at her from beneath the brim of his hat.

“As certain as I am you’ll find me and tell me if it doesn’t,” she replied lightly. 

After some haggling, which Hawke managed with the same degree of good humor she’d started out with, the ointment cost just a little less than what he would have paid at a general store, and far less than he  might have been able to get off a farrier.  The question, of course, was whether it would work as advertised, or whether he’d wasted coin he could ill afford to waste—and whether he’d be able to _find_ her afterward if it turned out not to work.  Fenris paid her his coin and went on his way, wasting no time heading back to the hotel’s stables as the gathered crowd exploded behind him, asking about cures for anything from creaky joints to toothache to hair loss and  whether or not her Empress Elixir might correct one’s… _vitality._ Hawke’s laugh—warm, not cruel, he noticed—carried on the wind before she lowered her voice and answered this last question in an undertone.  

By the time Fenris returned to the stables, he could still hear enough of the commotion to know there _was_ a commotion going on in town.  Agrippa lifted her head from the feed bucket long enough to acknowledge him as he let himself into the stall, then closed her eyes and resumed chewing noisily.

“Well,” he murmured, running one hand along her dappled grey flank, “shall we discover whether your master is a fool?”

Agrippa continued chewing, which Fenris accepted as an affirmative reply.  Crouching down and twisting open the jar, he dipped two fingers into the concoction, startled suddenly at how _cold_ it was.  But there, beneath the chill, there was a strange, tingling sort of warmth.  Frowning a little, he rubbed the ointment between his thumb and middle finger—it was thick and smooth, smelling rather powerfully of new-fallen snow, something cold and clean and sharp, and nothing at all of camphor.  He smoothed it along the narrow cut, noting that the mare snorted her surprise, jerking a little at the sudden chill when he applied the ointment, but beyond that she seemed unbothered by the application, or at least more interested in the contents of her bucket than anything else.

With a last look at the thick ointment smeared upon Agrippa’s leg, Fenris left his mare in the stall.  His stomach was reminding him it had been some time since _he’d_ had a proper meal himself, and he had no desire to linger in Ostagar any longer than absolutely necessary.  He would take time to eat and time to rest and examine his maps, determining the best, safest route to Amaranthine, and provided Agrippa’s wound was healed, he would be underway again at first light.

#

“A good haul,” Varric announced, closing the coffer.  “And we’re sold out.”  He leaned back and stretched his arms high above his head, then rotated his shoulders until they cracked. “Good call, singling out the broody elf.”

Amelle shrugged as she carefully folded the red gown, tucking it away in a trunk.  She’d traded it for a far more comfortable blue calico dress and a soft, warm shawl.  “He looked like he’d be a hard sell.”  

Isabela’s smirk was instant.  “Oh, I just _bet_ he’s—”

Amelle didn’t bother letting her finish, interjecting, “And if you can win over the hardest sell in the room…”

“You can win over the room,” Varric nodded.

And if the surliest customer also happened to be visually pleasing, well, Amelle could hardly be faulted for noticing him, could she?  It wasn’t as if he’d been scowling _subtly_ at her, in any case.  Then she’d met the glare burning out at her from beneath the brim of his dark hat and she’d known engaging him would be a gamble, but one _entirely worth it._

“What do you suppose his story was?” Isabela mused aloud.  Then, with a glance at Varric, she said, “Go on, fill in the blanks. You know you’re dying to.”

The dwarf chuckled.  “A character like that?  No idea.  Markings were a little odd.  Maybe he’s a Dalish pariah, cast out of the clan and forced to walk the world alone and bitter.  Or clan royalty, wrongly accused of a crime he did not commit, and is on the hunt for justice to clear his name.”

Amelle sat upon the trunk.  “I didn’t know the Dalish had clan royalty.”

Varric snorted his amusement and shook his head.  “Rivaini didn’t ask for facts, Hawke.  And the best stories don’t deal too heavily in truths anyway.  But whatever his story, we’ve got the broody elf to thank for the best haul we’ve had since Denerim.  I can safely assume you made sure he’d be a satisfied customer?”

“Oh, the _most_ satisfied,” replied Amelle with a knowing grin.  “I gave our scowly friend the good stuff.”

“Good,” he replied with a nod. “So what do you say, you two?  Grab some eats, find a card game, and see what kind of trouble we can get into before heading home in the morning?”

“You go on ahead,” Amelle replied ruefully, flicking her fingers; a blue flame licked to life in her palm.  “Probably better for all if I keep a low profile tonight.”

Varric and Isabela exchanged a look.  Before Amelle could ask, Varric asked, “Is it me, or are you recovering faster these days?”

“I don’t think it’s your imagination,” she said with a sigh, the flame winking out.  “I’ve… got an idea for something that might help keep my mana levels low, but it’s going to have to wait until we get back to Lothering.  I haven’t got half the supplies I’d need.”

“You’re going to try the magebane, aren’t you?” Isabela asked, her expression darkening as she folded her arms over her chest.  “I’ve said it once already: it’s a bad idea, kitten.”

“In a small enough dose,” argued Amelle, “there’s no reason why it shouldn’t suppress my mana levels just enough to keep me undetectable.”

“I _do_ know a thing or two about a good poison, sweet thing.  The last thing you want is to tangle with something that nasty.”

It was a topic they’d visited and revisited before, and Amelle knew perfectly well that Isabela had a point; playing around with toxins was tricky business, and definitely not something she relished.  On the other hand, Amelle also knew her mana was replenishing itself quicker and quicker these days.  And if that meant—as she thought it did—her abilities were getting stronger, then Amelle was going to need a stronger means of suppressing herself.

“Well,” she said brightly, “you’ve got as long as it takes until Lothering to talk me out of it.”


	2. Chapter 2

The food had been good and cards even better, if the hour Varric and Isabela had returned to camp was any indication.  As such, it was a few hours _past_ first light and well into the morning when they were finally underway to Lothering.  The road between Ostagar and Lothering was a good one, and travel between the two tended to take between two and three days, depending on how heavy their load was, and depending on whether or not they had to avoid anything—or any _one_ —en route.  Occasionally it took more.

The fist leg of the journey was off to a good start, despite their late beginning.  The day was cool, with a pleasant breeze that carried with it the soft chirping tweets of birdsong.  Isabela sat up front beside Varric, while Amelle rode alongside Falcon.  No matter how smooth the road, it was a rough ride in the back of the wagon, and one Amelle was only inclined to take when she was too mana-drained to stay upright in a saddle.  The warm sun and wind ruffling her hair paired with the horse’s smooth, even gait was enough to make her eyes grow heavy.  Her jaw cracked amidst a wide yawn when Varric reined the horses to a stop.

“You hear that?” he asked.

Amelle cocked her head; she hadn’t heard anything, but that accounted for very little.  Her mind had been otherwise occupied with sweet breezes, Falcon’s measured steps, and thoughts of home lying just a little further down the road.  But now that they were still, nothing but the wind blowing around them, the sound of gunfire was all too clear.  

“Sounds like someone’s in the middle of a disagreement up ahead,” he observed, darkly.

“And not a friendly disagreement,” murmured Amelle.

“Going around would put too much time on the trip,” Varric said.  “Quicker if we just wait for them to run out of bullets.”

“Kitten and I will go check it out,” announced Isabela, hopping down from the wagon; Amelle followed suit, but just as her feet hit the ground, a horse’s scream tore through the air, sending a ripple of anxiety through the other animals.  Falcon tossed his head and snorted, taking a few sudden, prancing steps to the side, pulling sharply on the reins she held.  Amelle soothed him, but as soon as she was able, tethered the animal before freeing her staff from where it was secured against his side, and setting off with Isabela at a jog.  There were ways around the main road, but not many, and Varric was entirely right— a new route would’ve added far too much time to the trip.

Together they crunched lightly through underbrush before reaching the tree line.  Their vantage point overlooked the gully through which the main road ran.  The source of the screams was evident at once: a man was trapped, pinned beneath his horse, which had clearly been injured.  He had reasonable cover behind a formation of rocks, but not nearly good enough.  Shots seemed to be aimed at him from nearly every direction.

“Mmm, if we wait for him to run out of bullets,” whispered Isabela in an undertone, “I doubt I’ll be a very long wait.”  She snorted with disgust.  “I hate waiting for a slaughter to end.  At least there’s _art_ to a duel. There’s more to it than pure brawn and the winner being whoever’s got the most bullets.”

“You hate an unfair fight unless it’s unfair to your benefit,” Amelle pointed out easily, eyes scanning the gully.

“Well, obviously.  Doesn’t everybody?  It’s different when _we’ve_ got the brawn.”  She let out a quiet _hmm._   “Looks like there’s… about six of them.”

“They don’t… look like templars,” Amelle murmured, taking in the dark-clad gunmen.  

“No, I don’t think so,” returned Isabela.  “Or, at least, if they are, I can’t smell their self-righteousness on the breeze.”

“Just wait for the wind to change,” came Varric’s voice from behind them.

Amelle looked over her shoulder.  “We were coming _back_ , you know.”

Varric just shook his head and peered through the trees.  “Six of ‘em, you said?”  At Isabela’s affirmative, Varric nodded to himself.  “Looks like it was a planned ambush.  Do you figure getting him under the horse was luck or skill?”

“Luck for who, exactly?” Amelle retorted, frowning at the pinned man.  He seemed to be doing as well as could be expected, all things considered, but Amelle didn’t expect that to last for very much longer.

Varric sent her a sidelong glance.  “Luck for them.  Bad luck for their target.”

Then, one of the men stood up from behind the rock formation that had been his cover, bellowing across the gully, “It’s all the same to us, slave! Half-dead’s good as alive, far as your reward goes!”

From below, a deep voice growled what Amelle could only surmise was a swear, though it was a language she’d never heard before.

Isabela’s expression darkened. “Tevinters,” she spat.  “ _Slavers._ ”

“All right, so maybe we _won’t_ be waiting for the gunfire to stop,” Varric said, pulling Bianca from his back and assessing the ambush already well in progress.  “Looks like they’ve got him pinned.  In more ways than one.”  

“I count six,” Isabela said.  “Various points around.”

Amelle nodded at the air rippling by the gunman that had called out to the other man; red light swirled into existence around his fingertips.  “At least one’s a mage—blood mage, from the looks of things—and my guess is there are probably at least two.  One handling offensive spells, the other defensive and healing.”

“I think we can take ‘em,” Varric said, sharp eyes assessing every possible spot the gunmen could have hidden themselves.

“Can you get to the other side of the gully?” Amelle asked.  Isabela’s grin was a more than sufficient answer to that particular question.  “Good.  I’ll stay on this side and see if I can provide a little backup—maybe some cover.  Stuck like that, he’s a sitting duck out there.”

“And it’s _still_ quicker than finding a different route around,” Varric said, checking Bianca’s trigger mechanism.

Sliding two deadly-sharp daggers from where they normally rested sheathed against her back, Isabela tossed them both an grin.  “More fun, too,” she said before fairly disappearing into the shadowy copse of trees.  

“She’s got an odd idea of fun,” Amelle said to Varric’s retreating back.

“You expect anything less from Rivaini?” he said before joining Isabela in the shadows.

Amelle had to admit, as she too stepped into the shadowy brush and crept closer to the gunfight, she did not.

As she hefted her stave, it awoke in her hands, as if sensing Amelle’s need for it just then.  Her staff was a formidable weapon, far more effective in her hands than any revolver or rifle, and though Amelle _could_ shoot, her aim was far superior when funneled down the bladed staff.  That said, it didn’t get frequent use on the road, though it came with them every trip because it was far better not to need the thing than to be caught unprepared.  Now it positively _hummed_ with energy.  She could hardly blame it; Amelle felt much the same way.

The horse screamed again and she took a breath, pushing a low-level healing spell its way.  Not nearly enough to undo whatever damage had been done, but enough to keep it comfortable for a time.  The less it thrashed, the less damage it did to itself and to the man pinned beneath it.  And then, crouching down and pushing aside a branch heavy with pine needles, Amelle peered down across the gully.  From here she saw three of the ambushers—one of them, as she’d thought, a blood mage.

No one had sensed her yet, but she knew it was just a matter of time before one of the other magic-wielders picked up the timbre of her power mingling with theirs.  While the element of surprise was on her side, she adjusted her grip on the staff, breathing deeply and reaching deeper and deeper into herself, to that place where she was tethered to the Fade, the place where her energy pulsed and sparked and thrummed.  She pulled at it, coaxing it upward, letting it expand and thrive beneath her skin, twisting and shaping her mana into a specific spell, and as she exhaled, it left her in a rush, charging through the staff and soaring forward.

The blood mage’s mana guttered out suddenly as Amelle’s disruption spell engulfed him, and the confusion on his face was almost comical, for all it was short-lived.  There was a sudden spray of blood as a crossbow bolt shot out through his throat, the force of the blow from behind sending the now-dead man’s head jerking sharply back before he toppled forward, Varric’s bolt still in his neck.

Confidence wavered slightly under the surprise attack.  Men shouted and gestured—nearly all of them revealing their hiding spots in the process—and several abandoned their posts to find their quarry’s assistance.

Again she heard her father’s voice.  _Don’t get involved, Mely._

“Oh, it’s too late for that, Daddy,” she murmured under her breath.  “Don’t think I can get more involved than this.” With that, Amelle hoisted her staff aloft and reached down once more, where fire and ice and lightning all twined about one another, sparks and frost bound together with bright white light.  She breathed in deeply, letting her mana swim and jump through her veins, and it had been so long since she’d used anything _but_ healing energy, the crackling elemental and spirit magics sang beneath her skin even as they made the fine hairs on her neck stand on end. 

Skin tingling with heat— _a fireball to start, I think_ — magic _rushed_ down her arm and a tiny tornado of flame licked and swirled, growing and growing until a globe of fire hovered in Amelle’s palm.  She flung it forward, catching another gunman, one who’d so unwisely abandoned his hiding place.  Amid his screams, the second mage, still well hidden, turned his attention away from offensive attacks, and toward healing his injured fellow.  Amelle kept her own attacks similarly focused, dispelling the defensive mage’s spells as she sent chain after chain of blinding lightning at the gunman, until he lay sprawled on the ground, smoke rising from his charred clothes, his body twitching in death throes.   

If the ambushers were harboring any doubts regarding a potential counterattack, those doubts were promptly laid to rest.  

Working from a distance, Amelle called upon lightning and ice—and more fire—distracting the gunmen, turning their attention away from the man and his horse.  Then, crouching down to keep them both in her line of sight, She flung a hand forward and sent a barrier shimmering into place around the horse, and the man trapped beneath it; she couldn’t see very much of the man, but the animal at least had stopped its wild thrashing.

The odds were hardly evened, even with their interference.  _Five, now, against…_ Amelle crept around and craned her neck; the animal had stopped thrashing, but the man was unmoving beneath it.  She swore.  _Five against three, then_ , she thought, breathing in to send a another rush of healing energy to the man, provided, of course, he wasn’t already dead.  But as she inhaled and called on her magic, the soft snap of a branch behind her—loud enough to Amelle’s ears to be a gunshot itself—made her turn, and then _throw_ her body to the side when she saw the dark figure holding a pair of glinting daggers aloft.  The ground was hard and rocky, and the impact knocked the breath from her lungs, but it was infinitely better than a blade or two in her back.  She scrambled to her feet, turning her staff around her hands as her assailant circled, face nearly completely lost in shadow beneath the brim of his—no, _her_ — hat.

“You’re interfering with the recovery of missing property,” the woman hissed, circling Amelle.  For her part, Amelle, kept the bladed end of her staff up, turning as the other woman circled.

“Missing property?” Amelle wheezed, still trying to coax a full breath into her lungs.  “You know, sometimes I lose socks in the laundry.  Most of the time I just figure they _want_ to be lost.  _I_ think the same principle should apply here.”

“That slave’s more valuable than a _sock_ ,” the woman growled, rushing forward.  

Amelle lifted the bladed end of her staff in time for it to clash sharply against the daggers, the force of the blow shuddering down her arms.  “And yet still doesn’t appear to want to be found.”  

Baring her teeth in a snarl, the rogue feinted forward, but as Amelle lifted her staff in defense she darted to the side.  There was barely enough time to pivot, dirt and twigs crunching and grinding beneath her feet as she moved, barely blocking the woman’s blades again.  She was moving far too fast for Amelle to fight like this, that much was certain, and almost too fast for Amelle to focus a spell.  And perhaps that was the whole point.  She kept moving, darting and weaving, nimble enough to use the trees around them for cover and distraction, and agile enough that any of Amelle’s spells hit just a fraction of a second too late.  Bolts of ice shot up from the ground, sending dirt and rocks flying, but the woman was already on her other side.  

Grinning.  Tiring her out and, Amelle realized with a sick wave of dread, keeping her out of breath.

Elemental magic was the quickest for her to summon, beyond defensive, healing magic, which right now did her no good at all.  Fire was out of the question; the whole forest this side of the gully would’ve gone up in flames, and ice was proving too slow, too blocky.  

The key was to slow her down and avoid being used as a pincushion in the process.

This time it was Amelle who moved first, sprinting deeper into the wooded area—she knew too well that slavers didn’t have a reputation for leaving survivors behind, so there was no question of the woman following her.  As Amelle ran, the forest blurring green-grey around her, she breathed deep, pulling her mana up and up until it sang beneath her skin, cold, cold down to the marrow in her bones, almost colder than she could stand; she twisted and shaped it—impossibly, indescribably _cold_ —then _pushed_ it out behind her, hoping, _praying_ the spell hit its mark.

Skidding to a stop and turning, Amelle saw the ice and frost spread out behind her, coating grass and saplings and wildflowers in shimmering crystal, but there was no sign of her pursuer.  

The blade that plunged into her back, however, _felt_ as if it too were coated in frost.  Gasping—and it was such a sick, wet sound she was sure the dagger had pierced a lung—Amelle landed hard on her knees, frost melting through her trousers, cold and wet against her skin.  The pain burned despite the cold, despite the frost and Amelle twisted her body, swinging the staff around even as she took the half breath still in her lungs and pushed every ounce of mana she had simmering in her body towards the wound.  Her assailant stood above her, frost clinging to her clothes, wreathed in her hair, but the smile at her lips was one of cruel victory.  One blade, Amelle saw, had red blood smeared and beaded upon it.

“Not quick enough,” the woman said, stepping down hard upon the hand that held Amelle’s staff.  The bones ground together painfully and Amelle sucked a rattling breath into lungs straining to repair themselves.  The assassin dropped to one knee and twisted a hand in Amelle’s hair, yanking her head back and baring her throat.

“As if it weren’t bad enough to be a mage defending a _slave,_ you can hardly defend _yourself._   You’re a blight upon your kind, mage.”  The blade rested against her throat.  “Let your Maker know I did you a _favor._ ”

“I’ve got a better idea,” wheezed Amelle, closing her eyes and breathing deep.  It still ached to inhale, and she was certain her body was all but covered in bumps and bruises, but the wet rattle in her lungs was absent and with that breath mana grew bright in her veins.  Amelle reached up where the dagger lay against her skin, brushing her fingers upon the metal blade.  “Tell Him yourself.” 

As she exhaled, tiny threads of lightning jumped from her fingertips to the shining metal blade.  

The moment those jagged lines of light touched the dagger, they wrapped around the blade, growing brighter, _stronger_ , traveling up the would-be assassin’s arm even as the force of the shock sent her reeling backwards, tumbling against a thick tree stump.  The woman struggled to keep her footing as she gasped for breath.  Wearily, Amelle pushed to her feet, watching as the woman’s body finally fell to the ground, jerking and spasming as the lightning arced through her.  Even once the spell dissipated, the woman’s body twitched, her breaths quick and shallow.

She was still alive, though barely and not for much longer.  

Pushing wearily to her feet, Amelle took up the staff and made her way to her assailant’s side.  “This blight upon her kind,” she panted, “has decided to show you a little mercy.”  Without waiting for an reply, Amelle screwed her eyes shut and plunged the bladed end of her staff downward.  When she opened them again, the blade was sunk deep into the ground, through the would-be assassin’s chest.  There was no life in the woman’s body.

“More than you would’ve shown me, I think,” Amelle murmured, shaking her head and pulling her staff free before heading back toward the sounds of gunfire.  Every step sent little shockwaves of pain through her body, though the worst of it radiated outward from the dagger’s entry point.  Amelle had healed the wound enough that she wouldn’t be drowning in her own blood anytime soon, but a full and proper healing took time she didn’t have and mana that needed replenishing.

When Amelle came to a break in the trees, it was in time to see Isabela and Varric take down the final gunman together; she coaxed the slaver out of cover, feinting and darting, and miraculously avoiding getting shot while the slaver slowly ran out of bullets.  When that finally happened, he drew a long, curved blade from a sheath and charged forward, blade raised.  A crossbow bolt flew out of nowhere, landing solidly in the man’s eye, throwing him back against the rock formation he’d been using as cover moments before.  

All was—finally—quiet.

Amelle came out through the break in the trees and carefully skidded down the hill to the road.

“You look like death warmed over, Hawke,” Varric said, shouldering Bianca and limping toward her.

“You should see the other guy.  And you don’t look so hot yourself.”

Varric grimaced down at the wound.  “Bright side is the road’s clear.”  He frowned, nodding at where man and horse still lay.  “The bullets quit coming from that corner a little while ago.  Don’t know if he just passed out or… if it’s something a little more permanent.”

Amelle sighed and nodded, turning her steps to the grey horse with its dappled hide and quiet, still rider.  The man’s head was turned away from her, his pale hair matted with sweat and dirt.  As she walked around to his other side, she stopped short and sucked in a sudden breath—it _hurt_ , and she winced, but didn’t take her eyes off the man at her feet.  It was the man they’d encountered in town the other day.  The hard sell. The one Varric had called Broody.  Without saying a word, she crouched down and pressed two fingers against his neck; a pulse beat, but it was faint and irregular.

“Well, _shit_ ,” Isabela said, coming up behind her.

“He’s alive,” Amelle said quietly.  “Though possibly not for much longer.  Damn it.”  She had _some_ lyrium potion in the wagon, but not much and— 

“Found a few bottles of this on the bodies,” Varric said, pressing a bottle into her hand.  “Figured they weren’t going to be using it.”

“You’re a _lifesaver_ ,” she replied, tugging the cork free and downing the lyrium in several long swallows.  For as pretty as the shimmering blue liquid was, lyrium potion tasted foul, like bitter almonds and licorice, a bite that tightened in the back of her throat at the same time that it made every breath Amelle inhaled rush cold and crisp into her lungs.  Her connection to the Fade once again grew bright and sharp with light and energy.  As she breathed in, mana rushed to the surface, ready to be set to work.

The first order of business was the horse.  It had been shot and its front right leg was broken—a clean break, though, just below the knee.  It lay on its side, nostrils flaring with each deep breath, watching Amelle with a wary glare that showed the whites of its eye.

Animals responded to magic in different ways—some of them, like Falcon seemed not to be bothered by it one way or another.  Others, however, were far more sensitive, and made no secret of their dislike, and Amelle had a sinking feeling this horse was going to be more like the latter than the former.  She crept forward, speaking in low, soft tones, until she was close enough to kneel where horse and rider were joined, pressing her hands against the animal’s body. It jerked beneath her touch and she stroked its long neck slowly as she closed her eyes and reached down and _past_ her connection to the Fade, deeper and deeper still, until a trickle of energy different than the rest bubbled forth, slowly at first, and then faster, growing and growing with a hot-cold pulse until Amelle knew she was aglow with blue-white light.

Phantom hands only she could feel rested over hers, and a voice only she could hear whispered in her ears, mimicking the soft, soothing sounds she made at the horse.  Though she knew Fade spirits were bloodless, every time she reached out to summon this energy, it coursed through her like a pulse.  Wave after wave of healing energy pushed forward and out in waves until she felt the horse’s bone knitting together again, the bullet wound closing, slowly pushing the lead slug up and up and up and finally _out_.  And, like a series of crashing waves, the energy of the Fade continued pushing and pushing, further and further, until Amelle became aware that she was breathing more easily, until she knew instinctively that Varric’s wound had healed.

She was distantly aware of the horse moving, scrambling to its feet, and perhaps she ought to have been concerned with getting trampled, but that was a concern that felt too distant to matter just then.  With a touch as light as any feather, the spirit’s hands guided hers until they rested upon the dying man.  She felt rather than saw every one of his injuries, and her stomach churned with the knowledge of the pain he’d undergone.  One leg had been broken in several different places when the horse fell upon him and the other leg twisted beneath his body— _he tried dismounting as the horse fell_ , she realized—with damage done to both the hip and knee.  He’d been shot in the shoulder; the bullet had broken his left collarbone and was still lodged inside him.  Another bullet had torn through his right arm, ruining muscle.  He had lost blood—it was pooled around them and soaking into her pants.

For a moment, for a sudden, fleeting fraction of a moment, she was certain she could not heal him.  But the spirit’s touch sunk _into_ her hands and in an instant those fears were groundless.  Cold fire lit her fingertips, pushing and pulling and _shifting_ , knitting bone and mending damage until every breath burned with exertion, as if she’d been running for miles.

Then it was over.  The light flared off, leaving her hands stiff and numb, her lungs aching, her clothes drenched with sweat.

She looked up at Varric, blinking slowly.  “He’ll live,” she said, taking care not to slur her words too much.  “How’s your leg?”

“Good as new, Hawke,” he said, though his image appeared to waver strangely as he said it.

“Oh. Good,” she said faintly, just before sliding bonelessly to one side.  She tried to catch herself, but mostly succeeded in landing hard on one elbow.  Blinking slowly, Amelle realized it wasn’t just Varric that was wavering all over the place.  _Everything_ was.

Using her teeth, Isabela pulled the cork from another bottle of lyrium potion and spat it aside before putting the bottle to Amelle’s lips.

“Bottom’s up, kitten.”

With clumsy fingers, Amelle grasped the bottle, swallowing greedily.  It tasted as bad as ever, but her head eventually cleared and mana that had been so close to depleted slowly began to swirl again beneath her skin.

“I think I might be getting a little _too_ used to running myself dry,” Amelle said, her voice sounding thick to her own ears as she slowly pushed to her knees.  “Should probably try to not do that so much.”  Running one hand over her face, she took a deep breath and let it out again.  

“Should we be concerned he didn’t wake up?” Varric asked.

“No,” Amelle answered.  “That was a damn lot of healing he got in one dose. Going to need more of it over a few days. Bones aren’t shattered anymore, but nowhere near as strong as they ought to be.”  She closed her eyes, pressing the cool tips of her fingers against the lids and forced herself to focus.  “Joints aren’t twisted anymore, but they’re going to be stiff and inflexible for a time.  I can fix injuries, but I can’t replace lost blood—and he lost a lot of that—and I can’t rebuild muscle.  Physical injuries like this, I can speed up the healing process, but it’s not an instant thing.”

“So what do we do about that?” he asked, though he was looking at her like he already knew what she was going to say.

She ran a hand through her hair, grimacing when her fingers got caught on something sticky that was probably better off not thought too hard about, and looked around them.  “Did his horse—oh.”  The grey mare’s reins were wrapped around a nearby sapling, and the animal was placidly grazing.  “Didn’t get away.”

“Of course she didn’t,” Isabela replied with a snort.  “The Rivaini are _excellent_ horsemen, I’ll have you know.”

“Which is why you prefer life on a ship,” Varric pointed out.

“I never said I _liked_ horses.  We’re just good with them.”

“Either way,” Amelle said, pushing herself to her feet with a grunt, “I think we should probably tether the horse to the wagon and bring our new friend along to Lothering.  Ostagar’s too far behind us to turn back now, and we’ve already lost travel time.  If he wakes en route and decides he wants to go another way, he’ll be more than free to do that.  But for now, probably best if we transport him to the wagon and get a move on.  If there are more slavers coming to join this lot, I’d rather not be here when they arrive.

Rather than carrying the unconscious elf the whole distance back to the wagon, Amelle stayed with him while Isabela and Varric took the grey mare back up the road, and got it situated with Falcon and the other horses.  Amelle needed a rest as well.  For all the lyrium potion restored mana, she tended to feel lightheaded until things righted themselves normally.  While she waited, she frowned down at her patient.  It was definitely the same man, no doubt about that.  And an escaped slave.  An escaped slave who’d held off six gunmen while pinned under his horse.

Amelle was suddenly, _desperately_ relieved she’d sold him a jar of the good stuff.

She knew little about the Tevinters—beyond the country being overwhelmingly inhabited and populated by mages, and their inclinations toward the slave trade.  She knew they were dangerous.  Ruthless.  The sort of people one typically took great pains to avoid.

“Perhaps they won’t come looking for you in Lothering,” she murmured.  She hoped she was right. 

The wagon soon came trundling along the road and the moment it slowed to a stop, Amelle hoisted herself up and in through the back.  Their supplies were low, so there was room enough for them to put together a makeshift bed of blankets for the unconscious man to lie upon.  It was tricky work maneuvering him into the wagon and onto the pallet, but she and Isabela managed it, while Varric offered advice that wavered between _remotely helpful_ and _not at all_.

“You staying back here, Hawke?” Varric asked her as Isabela crawled out to sit at the front of the wagon.

“I was considering it,” she said.  “Could be unpleasant if he wakes up disoriented.”

Varric frowned, eyes flicking down to the stranger and back up again.  “I thought you said Broody’d be out a while longer.”

“Oh, he very likely will be.  I’d rather not take chances, though.”

“You think he could be trouble?”

She let out a soft bark of laughter at that.  “I think I’d rather not irritate any man who can defend himself against six.”

Varric’s expressive face shifted from shrewd to wry as he chuckled in turn.  “To say nothing of the _pinned under a horse_ part, huh?”

“My thoughts _exactly._ ”

In the end, Amelle opted to stay in the wagon for a fair portion of the trip.  Her patient—who she couldn’t help but at least mentally refer to as _Broody_ —woke, but only for brief intervals, surfacing from slumber long enough for her to determine he wasn’t in any immediate danger, despite a stubborn fever that seemed intent on returning in between bouts of healing.  That troubled her, but she eased back the heat burning upon his skin as often as it took.  She _hoped_ he was out of danger, at any rate.  He did rouse occasionally, which Amelle found reassuring.  

Only half a day’s travel out of Lothering, darkness fell, so they found a quiet clearing off the main road with a gently trickling creek carving a winding path just beyond the tree line.  It was a fine place to rest the horses and make camp before the final stretch of the trip.  After they’d eaten, Varric and Isabela settled by the campfire and were soon entrenched in a particularly intense game of Diamondback.  Amelle left them to their devices and crawled into the wagon to see to Broody’s slow-healing injuries.

She lit the lantern with a flick of her fingers, and soon the warm amber glow chased away the dusky evening shadows.  Her patient, still frustratingly nameless, save for the nickname, since none of his belongings bore any sort of name or label, lay still upon the bed of blankets.  

She’d wiped away as much of the dirt and grime as possible from his face and hands, but grit dulled and darkened his pale hair—and she’d never seen strands so white on any man as young as he. For that matter, she’d never seen tattoos quite like his.  

Head to toe, he was a walking—or in this case _sleeping_ —mystery.

“Still so sure I have nothing you require?” she murmured as she knelt upon the wagon’s knotted wood floor, running deft fingertips over one slow-healing leg and then the other; the bone that had been broken felt better than it had, but when she examined the knee of the other leg, the joint felt warm to the touch and swollen.  _Best to start there_ , then, she decided.

But as Amelle’s hands flared to life with mana and healing magic, the man upon the pallet stirred, letting out a soft groan, barely audible, as his fingers twitched.  His eyes were half open in the dim light, though he looked the furthest thing from alert.

“You’re safe,” she said quietly.  There was a flask of fresh, cold water nearby, and she grabbed it, tilting the neck to his lips.  “All right?  You were injured in that fight, but you’re safe, and your horse is fine.”

He blinked slowly, swallowing the trickle of water.  “…Safe,” he finally managed, his voice low and rough.

“Yes.”  She remembered the furious desperation the slave hunters had shown, and it suddenly became _imperative_ he understand that he was in no immediate danger.  “You’re safe.  I swear it.”

A faint frown furrowed his brow, making him look for all the world like he wanted to argue with her.  She brushed the hair away from his forehead, fingertips skimming the furrow, and he subsided minutely.

“We’re just outside of Lothering,” she explained slowly, not completely sure if he was picking up any of what she told him, but explaining anyway.  “That’s where we’re headed.  You’ll be safe there till you’ve fully recovered.”

He seemed to nod, or at least it _looked_ like it _could_ have been a nod.  Or he could have just tumbled back into unconsciousness.  After a few seconds, Amelle realized that was exactly what had happened.

“And _next_ time you open those eyes,” she muttered, turning her attention back to his swollen and struggling knee, hands flaring to life as she took a breath of mana, “I’m finding out your blighted _name,_ Broody _._ ”


	3. Chapter 3

The sun shone high above and Amelle was astride Falcon when the Hawke farm came into sight.  The two-story clapboard farmhouse stood like a beacon, surrounded by stone outbuildings and flanked by two vast fields.  Beyond them, for as far as Amelle could see, tall grass, a vibrant a green as she’d ever known, swayed and rippled in the wind, moving almost like water.  The sound of a lowing cow carried on the breeze.

 _Home._ Every trip had started feeling longer and longer, and though they were returning early, she felt as if she’d never been away for longer than she had now.  Just the sight of the house made her heart lift giddily beneath her breast.  Amelle adjusted her grip on the reins, resolutely resisting the urge to press her knees into Falcon’s sides and close the rest of the distance at a gallop.

Varric snapped the reins and shot her a knowing look—so knowing she wondered if she was truly that transparent, and then decided she didn’t care.  “Oh, go on, Hawke,” he said.  “No one’s gonna think less of you for going on ahead.”

“ _I_ will,” Isabela sniffed.

“Okay, nobody but Rivaini’s gonna think less of you for it.  If you think you can live with that—”

Amelle didn’t hear whatever else Varric had to say; her ears were too full of thundering hoofbeats and the wind as it rushed past.  She’d grown up in Lothering, and she knew the roads and woodland as well as—better than—the back of her hand.  In fact, she knew it as well as she knew her magic, as well as she knew the mana that came to life in her veins.  Falcon knew the way, too.  He pushed into a gallop without any effort, knowing this was home, knowing full well a warm stall and fresh hay were waiting for him.  

Mother came around from the herb garden at the back of the house, carrying a bouquet of leafy, green somethings in her apron, her face lighting up at the sight of the familiar horse and rider barreling toward the house; sage, chamomile, lavender and spearmint all twined together on the breeze, smelling entirely and perfectly like _home._   Dismounting and barely remembering to keep hold of Falcon’s reins, Amelle swept forward and crushed her mother in a one-armed hug.

“Amelle!” Leandra Hawke laughed, taking care not to drop the herbs she’d picked while at the same time returning her daughter’s embrace.  “I wasn’t expecting you back for another week.”  She pulled back, worry marring her forehead.  “Nothing’s wrong, is there?”

“Quite the opposite,” replied Amelle.  “We came back early because our cupboards are entirely bare—we sold every last drop.”

Maternal pride warmed her mother’s face. “And there’s been no… other trouble?”

“No trouble of the templar variety, no,” she answered—and it was a relief that was one question she could answer _honestly_.  “We’ve been managing to stay ahead of them, or behind them, or anywhere but directly in their way.”  There was no point in mentioning her own developing skills; those conversations always tended to worry Mother more than anything else.   Behind her, the wagon was just turning off the road and making its way up to the house.  “That said, we did bring back a stray.”

“A… stray,” Mother echoed, her eyes following Amelle’s to the slowly approaching wagon.  “Maker,” she said on a dry chuckle, “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“Nothing _bad._   On the road to Lothering, we encountered a man pinned down by—”  _No,_ she admonished herself.  _Don’t mention slavers.  Maker knows you don’t need to give her_ another _thing to worry about while you’re gone._   “—Bandits,” she finished.  “He’d been pinned down by bandits and quite seriously injured.  Would it be all right if we made up a bed?  I doubt he’ll be any trouble; he’s  hardly been awake more than thirty seconds at a time since we found him.”

“Bandits?”

“Oh, he’ll be all right, I’m certain.  It was a fair fight once we came along.”  She offered a smile she hoped was bolstering and sincere.  “We sent the ruffians on their way, no need to worry.”

It was common practice to tell Mother as little as humanly possible about the types of scrapes they occasionally found themselves in.  Or… anything at all about their travels beyond the type of food one enjoyed in Denerim or how Amaranthine seemed to get the new muslins and calicos in before Gwaren. 

“Hmm.  I don’t see why I can’t make up the bed in your brother’s room.”  She looked up then, looking hard at Amelle in that way only mothers in general—and Leandra Hawke _in particular_ —could manage.  It was a shrewd sort of look with eyes that seemed to bore right through Amelle, leaving her with the vaguest feeling she was about to be in trouble for something later.  The look didn’t last more than a few seconds, but was still more than enough time to unsettle Amelle, unsettling her _further_ when the expression vanished and her mother smiled.

“I’ll go on in and make up the bed while you, Isabela, and Varric unpack the wagon,” she said before disappearing into the house in a swirl of blue plaid.

With one last look at her mother’s back, Amelle tied Falcon to the hitching post and turned to help Isabela and Varric start unloading.  As Isabela hopped down, Amelle leaned in, whispering the word _bandits_ in the other woman’s ear.

“And let me guess,” she murmured back.  “We _didn’t_ kill every last one.”

Amelle nodded.  “Just make sure Varric knows.  You _know_ how Mama loves chatting him up.”

“As much as he loves being the one doing the chatting.  Will do, kitten.”

Unloading her charge was slightly tricky business, but being of a height, she and Isabela managed it fairly well for the most part, with Amelle carrying his upper body while Isabela supported the legs and delivered commentary.  Varric chose the wiser course and remained downstairs with Leandra to regale her with the… significantly edited version of their exploits this particular trip.

“Are we _sure_ he’s not just going to die on us, kitten?” Isabela asked once they were alone upstairs, the patient settled on Carver’s narrow bed.  Amelle was removing his boots and looked up through the dark fringe of her bangs to send her friend a sharply reproving look.

“ _Yes_ , I’m sure he’s not just going to die on us.”

“It’s been two days,” she remarked, one dark brow arching.  “I’m not certain I’ve ever seen anyone _sleep_ like that.”

“I’ve already told you, I can’t replace lost blood; I can only make sure his body saves what it makes.  I won’t say it wasn’t close, but he’s come this far, and he’s made it through the roughest part.”

“Thanks to your,” Isabela coughed delicately, “tender loving care.  _Of course._ ”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure your imagination has been running positively _rampant_ since we took him on,” muttered Amelle, trying very hard not to think of Isabela’s preferred brand of yarn-spinning.  “Do me a favor, though, and leave the storytelling to Varric?”

“I don’t think I can do that,” she replied, sitting with a flounce in a chair.  “He’s quite delicious-looking.  And I’m sure he’ll be so very,” Isabela’s voice dropped into a husky, sultry register, “ _very_ thankful. Once he wakes up.”

Amelle’s reply did not expound further than, “Mmm.”

Isabela, however, had clearly been expecting more of a volley, and practically _pouted._ “Oh, you’re _no_ fun.”

One boot came off, then the other, and Amelle draped a light quilt over the sleeping man.  “I could turn you into a frog,” she mused.  “ _That_ could be fun.”

Isabela crossed one long, booted leg over the other and huffed.  “You can’t do that.”

Straightening, Amelle planted both hands on her hips and shot the other woman an amused glare.  “Just because I’ve never _tried_ doesn’t mean I _can’t._ ”  She glanced again at her patient.  “Now, shoo.  I’ve got work to do.”

“I just _bet_ you—”

“Isabela.  _Frog._ ”

“Maker’s _balls,_ you’re touchy.  I’m _going,”_ Isabela said, and with a flounce, closed the door behind her as she left.

“She’s only _half_ serious, I’m fairly sure,” Amelle muttered to the unconscious man.  “You don’t have to worry about her.  Much.”  She dragged a chair to the bedside and settled down, cracking her knuckles as the wood gave a gentle creak beneath her weight.  “Now.  Shall we see how well you’re healing up?”  A pause.  “Yes, I thought sure you’d agree.”

Folding back the quilt she’d just used to cover him, Amelle probed gently at each healing point.  The swelling at both the knee and hip had returned, much as she’d thought, but unless she missed her guess, the broken leg was stronger than it had been.  But joints were a tricky business; magic could only do part of the work, and even with the amount of healing she’d already applied, it was going to take some time to work the joints back to full strength and flexibility.  Still, he was alive, which was more than she could have said for him had things worked out another way.

She pushed up one leg of his trousers, revealing the shin and calf that had been so shattered.  Breathing in deeply and pulling at her mana, healing magic flared hot and cold at her hands as Amelle rested her palms against his shin, just above the damaged area.  But before the glowing threads of healing magic could stretch out and surround the spot, a sharp inhale snapped her attention away from her work and to her right, where she saw the unconscious “Broody” was quite conscious, and looking not at all _broody._   No, the set of his jaw and the fire snapping hatefully in those green eyes radiated anything but a brooding disposition.

“It’s all right—” she began, but had no time to say anything more, for the pale tattoos she’d admired and puzzled over at turns flared suddenly, _brilliantly_ bright, and though Amelle yanked her hands away and stood, the chair’s legs scraping loudly across the floor just before it toppled, her patient was levering himself to his feet even faster than she could move away.  His glare never abating, he wrapped one glowing hand around her neck and _pushed_ , slamming her back hard against the wall.

 _Maker, don’t let Mama have heard that,_ she thought wildly as she struggled and wheezed for breath, grabbing and clawing at the arm that held her fast.

“Where have you brought me, _mage_?” he growled out.  The answer, she feared, was only meant to be a rhetorical one, because after asking it, he thrust one glowing fist into her chest.

The pain was unbelievable.  If she’d had any breath whatsoever, she’d have screamed and screamed and _screamed_ until either it stopped or he killed her.  She struggled again to suck in any air she could, but the effort only made her chest—her lungs, the very bones in her body, her heart; oh, Maker, her _heart_ —throb in lancing, stabbing agony, as if she might split apart or contract until there was nothing left of her.

“P-please…” she managed, though she could only feel the words forming at her lips.  She couldn’t hear a thing beyond the pounding of blood in her ears as his hand tightened harder around her throat and the edges of her vision began turning grey.

 _Maker, please,_ she thought feverishly _.  Don’t let Mama see this.  Don’t let her walk in.  Don’t—_

“Where,” he snarled, and Maker he was squeezing—he was _squeezing her heart_ as he leaned closer, closer until the light hurt her eyes and she clenched them shut, “ _have you brought me?_ ”

And then all at once he let out a painful cry and the hand around her throat and the one clutching her heart were both gone, and then she could _breathe_.  She sucked in a painful breath, and with hard, hacking coughs, Amelle slid down to the floor.  She held her hand clutched against the spot where his _hand_ had been a moment before, and was so shocked to find no wound, no blood up on her when she looked down at herself.  When she looked up again, it was to find a dagger pressed to his throat and Isabela behind him, looking furious and fierce and not in the least bit contrite about the kick she’d delivered to the back of his injured knee.

“I have an idea, sweet thing,” she purred through gritted teeth, “let the person you’re asking the questions of get enough bloody breath to _answer._ It’s only the polite thing to do after someone’s saved your neck.”

He snarled something in a language Amelle had never heard before, but Isabela just clucked her tongue, pressing the flat of the blade more firmly against his neck.  “Language, language.”

“Amelle?” Her mother’s voice floated up the stairs.  “Darling, what was that noise?  Are you all right?”

“Everything’s just peachy, Leandra,” Isabela called brightly over her shoulder, never relinquishing her grip, never letting the dagger’s blade slip even a fraction of an inch.  “Kitten’s puppy just tried taking a few steps before he was ready and had a little stumble is all.”  Then, lowering her voice, she looked down at Amelle.  “You all right, kitten?”

Amelle’s hands shook.  Hell, she seemed to be shaking from head to foot, inside and out.

 _His hand was in my chest,_ she thought numbly, the thought chasing around and around her head as she prodded her fingers at the sore spot around her sternum _.  His_ hand _was in my chest.  His_ hand _was in my_ chest.  For the moment, she was miles away from _all right.  His hand was in my chest._

 _Yeah, well,_ she thought dourly, _Daddy told me never to get involved.  Could’ve been good advice, after all._

Realizing Isabela expected an answer to her question, Amelle pulled her mind back to herself and nodded once, sure the woman could see the lie of it.  “I’m all—”  grimacing at the rasp of her own voice, she swallowed hard—it hurt and she coughed, which only hurt _worse_ —and tried again.  “I’m all right.  Or will be.  I just need a moment.”  After a second or two, she added, “He should be off his feet.”

“He’s damned lucky I don’t throw him down the stairs.  And out the door for good measure.”

“I’d rather you not undo all of my work, Isabela.”  Moving slowly and carefully, and conscious of every twinge and ache, she pushed to her feet.  “It’s mana I won’t get back.”

“Well, puppy?” Isabela asked, glaring at the man she held.  “What do you say?  Are you going to behave politely while kitten here gets her bearings, or are things going to have to get _unpleasant_?”

“My name is Fenris,” he ground out.

“At any other point that would have been positively fascinating, but it’s not an answer to my question.”

“He needs to sit,” Amelle protested.  “You’ve probably reinjured his knee.”

Fenris—well, at least he had a _name_ now—shot her an inscrutable look as Isabela retorted, “I hope you don’t expect me to feel bad about that.”

“It wasn’t an easy thing to heal.”

For her part, Isabela looked as if she had something particularly foul-tasting sitting upon her tongue, and the only cure was to spout off any number of obscenities of varying potency.  “Fine,” she said, turning Fenris free, but steadfastly refusing to sheathe her dagger as she watched him with narrowed eyes.  With a glare, Fenris limped to the edge of the bed and carefully eased himself down on it.  Though he was sitting now, nothing about him looked remotely at ease; in fact, he looked _coiled_ , as if ready to spring into action at the first opportune moment.  Bracing one hand against the wall, Amelle bowed her head and took several deep breaths, summoning healing mana that cooled and eased away the grating pain in and around her throat; whatever damage Fenris had done when he’d reached into Amelle and grabbed her heart, however, was not so easily alleviated, and even after the initial pain was gone, a dull phantom ache lingered.

From the corner of her eye, she noted the way his body went rigid and his jaw clenched when she summoned her magic.  Her gut reaction was not to give too terribly much of a damn, given that he’d _shoved his hand in her chest._ Then she remembered—it had been _Tevinter_ hunters after him.  Tevinter hunters likely hired and paid by Tevinter magisters.  All things considered, that knowledge still didn’t leave her feeling terribly charitable.  Particularly since one of those hunters had driven a dagger into _her_ back.  

“So,” she began, righting the toppled chair and sitting down in it.  Her voice was still slightly husky, but there wasn’t much to be done about that right now.  “It seems to me there’s a conversation we need to have.”

“Starting with the part where we saved your damned life!” Isabela snapped as she moved to lean against the far wall, arms crossed over her chest.

“Isabela,” Amelle sighed.

“Well, we _did._ ”

Throughout this exchange, Amelle realized Fenris was looking at her.  More than that, he was watching, _scrutinizing_ her, as if he’d seen her face somewhere before.  Then she saw the exact moment when he realized he _had_ seen her face before, and where.

“You… you are the merchant from Ostagar,” he said slowly.  “And she…” he said, with a glance in Isabela’s direction, “was in the _crowd_.”  His tone, as well as the look he swung her way, was vaguely accusatory.

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to harp on my sales ethics _now_ ,” Amelle replied pertly, arching an eyebrow at him.  “Because given the reputations of some more unscrupulous purveyors and peddlers of goods, I think I can hardly be blamed for stacking the deck a _little_ in my own favor.”

“The ointment worked as you said it would,” he said quietly, brows lowering into something… a little too thoughtful to be a proper scowl.

“Note my lack of surprise.”  She leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.  “All right.  Fenris.  Care to tell me _what in the Void_ that,” she gestured at her chest, “was all about?”

Several seconds of silence ticked by.  Finally, and though it looked as if the words were being pulled from him, he said, “I was… disoriented.  The last thing I knew, I had been cornered by the hunters pursuing me.  In my attempt to dismount, my horse was injured and fell upon me, pinning me.  When… assistance appeared to have arrived, I thought it a figment of my imagination.  When I awoke to realize it was a mage healing me…”

“You thought the worst?”

He nodded once, briskly.  “I escaped a land where mages rule all.  I thought myself to be rid of magic, to have at least escaped it, but it has followed me, hunted me at every turn.”

Amelle leaned back in the chair, spreading her hands wide.  “And now you find yourself in the company of another mage.”

A flicker of frustration and annoyance passed over his features, but he seemed to push them aside.  Good news for her, she thought.  “I should have realized sooner what you really were,” he said, after a moment.

“Because the ointment worked?”

Fenris shot Amelle a knowing look.  “It worked too well.”

Well, that was something, at least.  She smiled, and she knew there was an unrepentant tilt to it.  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I see.”  And as she leaned back, Fenris leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his thighs as he clasped his hands.  “In that case, since we are to be plain, might I ask you something?”

“People who shove fists in other people’s chests,” Isabela drawled, “don’t usually _get_ to ask questions.”

Amelle shot Isabela a glare, then turned back to Fenris.  “I have a feeling I’m going to regret saying yes, but I’ll say it anyway.”

He fixed her with shrewd green eyes. “What sort of mage are you?”

The question made her blink.  “I’m sorry?”

“Every person wants something.  What do _you_ want?”

Amelle exchanged a glance with Isabela, who shrugged.  “I know what my answer is, kitten, but you’re not exactly the fame and fortune _type._ ”

“Gee, thanks ever so.”  She turned back to Fenris with a shrug.  “I don’t know,” she finally admitted.  “I want to survive.  I want to keep my mother safe and the farm solvent.  I want to avoid the Stannard’s templars.”  There was more she wanted, but they were the foolish wants of a girl who’d spoken rashly once and regretted it every day.  They were not the sorts of wants one divulged to a stranger, particularly one who’d tried to kill her minutes before.  “Insofar as I’ve got _wants,_ anyway.  Safety and security for myself and the people important to me.”

“A noble goal,” he replied, sending her a level look, “but I have seen many crimes done in the name of noble goals.”

“Hmm.  And the conversation suddenly turns less complimentary.”

He grimaced and looked away.  “I imagine I appear ungrateful.  If so, I apologize, for nothing could be further from the truth.  I… when I awoke, I was disoriented.”

Slowly, she put the pieces together and nodded.  “And you… thought you’d been captured.”

“I did.”  A muscle jumped in his jaw as he swallowed.

Sensing the danger was past, Isabela pushed away from the wall with a snort.  “This one’s your call, Hawke,” she said, sauntering to the open door.  “Varric’s busy keeping your mother entertained, but I should let him know he doesn’t have to turn your guest into a pincushion just yet.”

“Thank you, Isabela.”

“Just watch yourself, kitten,” was all she said before disappearing down the short hall.  Isabela’s booted footfalls were barely audible as she made her way downstairs.  When Amelle looked back to Fenris, she saw he was glaring down at his hands, still tightly clasped.

“You aren’t a prisoner here, you know,” she told him, her voice low.  “You were… near death by the time we could safely reach you.”  Amelle paused, adding, “Your injuries were…serious, and you’re not fully healed yet.  You slept nearly the whole trip to Lothering.”

“I see,” he replied quietly, brows twitching together in what looked like momentary confusion as he continued looking down at his hands.

Shooting Fenris a wry look, Amelle added, “And I’d imagine you feel like the Void.”  She nodded at his knee.  “Particularly now, since I doubt that was anything like a _gentle_ kick.  Besides that, you lost more blood than anyone ought and your other leg was in more different pieces than I cared to count.  I’ll tell you right now, you want to stay and recover?  You’re more than welcome to.  You want to saddle up your mare and head on out?  You’re welcome to do that too.  We didn’t exactly leave anyone behind, so the chances of you being tracked here anytime _soon_ are comfortably nestled between slim and none.”

It took a moment, several of them in fact, but eventually subsiding, Fenris nodded.  “Very well. I… will stay. For a time.”

“You sure?  Because I want to make sure you realize that if you do stay, then what the healer says, goes.”  When Fenris began to bristle, Amelle held up one finger and added quickly, “I’m not going to see you do any more damage to yourself.  I can help you heal without magic if that’s what you really want, but it’ll take a damn sight longer.  Beyond that, if I say you stay off the leg, you stay off the leg.  If I say it’s time for a poultice, it’s time for a poultice.  Are you seeing a trend?”

“I am,” he replied, but not without a glower.  Amelle only smiled at him.  Cheerfully.

“Good.”

“But I _will_ make myself useful,” he argued. “I owe you a debt.”

“I wouldn’t say _that._   We didn’t do anything any other decent person wouldn’t have done.”

“You have a high opinion of other people,” he remarked, shooting her a dry look.  “I’ve met few in my travels who have sought anything more than personal gain.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He shrugged a shoulder.  “In any case, while I am… here, if you require my assistance, I am at your disposal.”

“Because of this… debt you say you owe me.”

“Indeed.”

It was hard not to chuckle a little at that, and yet Amelle wasn’t wholly surprised, either.  “Not a fan of charity?” she asked Fenris, lifting her brows at him.  Answering her own question with a shrug, she said, “Fair enough.  You want to be useful, Maker knows there’s enough around a farm to keep plenty of people busy.  But you’re still not doing a damned thing short of having a cup of tea with Mama until I say you’re fit for it.”  Fenris nodded, but the gesture—to say nothing of the flash of irritation in his eyes—managed to leave Amelle with the distinct feeling that this was going to be a point they’d be arguing over for most of the next few days.

“Very well,” he said.  It sounded a whole lot like, _Like hell._

“All right.  Now that we’ve got the unpleasantness over with, what do you say about letting me finish what I came in here to do in the first place?  Without the attempts on my life this time?”  His grimace told her clearly enough that if Fenris did not precisely _regret_ that little stunt, neither was he entirely proud of such an… overreaction.

“I believe you indicated my remaining here depended on the condition I say yes,” he finally answered.

“I don’t _have_ to use magic,” she riposted, showing him her hands.

“You may,” he relented.  “It will be, as you said, quicker.”

“At least you can be made to see sense,” she murmured, dragging her chair a little closer to the bedside.  As Fenris settled back upon the narrow bed, a sudden wince creased his forehead when he bent and straightened the knee Isabela had kicked, answering any questions Amelle might’ve had about the state of that particular joint.  Clasping her hands, a series of soft cracks and pops issued forth from her knuckles, and with a breath, she coaxed the sudden rush of mana into the blue-white light of her healing magic.

“Shall we?” she asked.  At Fenris’ nod, Amelle placed her hands on his swollen, damaged knee.

#

Fenris wouldn’t have thought himself a man easily surprised.  It took a day like today—or an hour like the last hour—to demonstrate just how wrong he was on that score.

No, he’d not been surprised to awaken in the company of a mage.  His last thoughts before succumbing to pain and darkness had been anger that he’d been bested by _hunters_.  After running and evading them for so long, he’d been beyond furious with himself for getting caught.  Upon waking, the first glimmers of surprise came when he realized he’d not been restrained, when he caught her entirely unawares, when he saw fear and shock and something that was kin to betrayal in her eyes as his hand wrapped around her throat—fear, shock, and betrayal, but not a whisper of disdain or fury.

Fury came later, of course, though not his own, when his knee exploded into bright shards of agony and the cold, sharp blade of a dagger pressed against his throat.  But with that cold blade came clarity and the realization that the woman in front of him was none other than the merchant he’d dealt with in Ostagar.  _Hawke_.  That had been her name, the one from whom he’d bought the ointment for Agrippa—the ointment that had worked uncommonly well.  

Like _magic_ , one might say.  

He’d been a fool for not noticing it right away, but he’d also been desperate to heal Agrippa’s wound, and hadn’t wanted to see how unusually well the ointment worked, only that it had worked, and his mare was well enough to travel again the next morning.

 The lyrium in his skin prickled in response to the magic she wielded, but little else; Fenris looked at Hawke, watching intently as she concentrated on applying her healing spells his injuries.  He scarcely recognized her now—there was no paint upon her face, and the dusty traveling clothes she wore were a far cry from the crimson gown he’d last seen her in.  Beyond that, there was something… intangibly different about her—the sense of _showmanship_ was gone; she was just a woman in a quiet room, healing an injured leg.  

“It shouldn’t take too long to get you right as rain,” she murmured, frowning hard as she worked.  “A few days more, if you take it easy and don’t overtax yourself.  You’ll want to be mindful of your arm and shoulders, too.  You caught a few bullets—one broke your collarbone, so just be careful.”  The magic flared off from her fingertips and she shook them out.  “That should do for a bit.  Next the hip, if you please.”  She gestured, indicating he lay back, and then she summoned her magic again, sending the threads of light to yet another injury site.  “Your mare is fine, by the way.  Her injuries were mostly superficial.  She’s likely in the stables now, dining on oats and alfalfa.”

“And we are… in Lothering, you said.”

“That’s right, at the one and only Hawke farm.  I don’t know where you were headed, but we figured you stood a better chance of survival if we brought you with us, rather than taking you back to Ostagar.”  She worked a moment longer before adding, “It’s pure luck we came across you anyway.  We sold the last of our stock in one day.  Normally we wouldn’t have headed back for another day, maybe two.”

“I shall count myself fortunate.”

“Fortunate, hmm?” she said, a crooked grin tilting her lips, though she kept her attention focused on her magic.  “You didn’t seem all that thrilled with me a little while ago.”

He grimaced.  “I have no reason to like or trust mages.  But I concede you are not Danarius.”  

She glanced up at him through the fringe of her hair.  “Danarius?”

“The magister to whom I was… in service.”  He swallowed hard, adding bitterly, “My master.”

She said nothing for a moment.  Then, finally, “I see.”

Fenris fell silent, watching her magic, impossibly bright for such thin strands of light, sink past the dark cloth of his trousers, then feeling it soak into his skin, down through bone and sinew, burning like the hottest ice as it slowly mended what was damaged.  “Whether you are at all like him remains to be seen.”

“Mmm.  That sounds like quite a vote of confidence,” she replied wryly as the ache in his hip started to fade. He hadn’t realized he’d _been_ in pain until that pain receded.  “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll do my best to avoid living up to that particular comparison.”  

He did not mention that Danarius was far more accomplished in inflicting injuries than healing them.

From his hip, Hawke turned her attention to the leg that had been broken.  “Will they keep looking for you?” she asked.  “The hunters.  Will they track you?”

“They will come as long as my master keeps sending them.  And he is too proud to stop now.”

“He… wants you that badly?”

Fenris snorted.  “He doesn’t want _me_ at all.”

Her brows contorted in confusion.  “That doesn’t make any—”

“My markings,” he broke in brusquely.  

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“I saw well enough what they allow you to do,” she replied steadily.  “And I can imagine that kind of power appealing to a certain kind of person.”

“Some might say the same thing of the power a spirit healer wields,” he countered.

Hawke let out an indelicate snort of laughter.  “Yes, witness the power I hold.  I craft ointments and tonics sold to keep the roof patched, the animals fed, and the fields tended, and attempt to heal elves who then try to kill me.  I’m quite intimidating, I’m sure.”  She shot him a sidelong glance.  “And how can you be so certain I’m a spirit healer?”

“You aren’t denying it.”  At her shrug, he added, “And a common healer would have a far more difficult time mending these injuries.”

“Guilty as charged, I suppose.  At any rate, we’re done for now.”  The glow hovering around her hands flared off into nothing.  “I recommend you get some rest,” she said, rubbing her hands and flexing her fingers as she stood.  “Supper won’t be for a couple of hours yet, but I know it’s been a good while since you’ve had a proper meal, so I’ll see if there’s anything I can scare up in the meantime.  Your saddlebags are down with the rest of our gear, so I’ll get those up to you—I didn’t figure on you waking up this soon.”

“I… understand.”

She nodded once.  “I imagine you probably wouldn’t mind washing up—that’s usually the fourth or fifth order of business after coming back from a haul, so it’ll be a while yet before any baths get started, I’m afraid.”  She nodded at a small table by one of the windows.  On it rested a basin and pitcher, and a small towel hung over the edge of the table.  “That’s fresh water, so hopefully it’ll—”

“That will more than suffice.”

“All right then.  Try and stay off your feet, and I’ll be back with your belongings after I’ve checked on the horses.”

It wasn’t until she was gone, her footsteps fading down the stairs and out the door, followed by the sharp, strange reverberation of her voice as she called out to someone named “Merrill,” that he realized he had not thanked Hawke for her hospitality.  It was not lost on Fenris that there was _no reason_ for her to do any of what she was doing for him.

It was then he realized he also hadn’t apologized for attempting to kill her.

No.  No reason at all.


	4. Chapter 4

As Hawke had predicted, it took time for Fenris’ injuries to fully and properly heal.  Indeed, he’d never rested so well, so consistently as he had the past three days.  Neither had he eaten so well; he was unaccustomed to eating three meals in a day, much less on anything resembling a regular schedule.  There had even been a bath that first night, and though he was entirely sure the water had been heated magically, Fenris likewise knew he’d have been a fool to feel anything but grateful for the luxury of a steaming-hot bath.

The Hawke farmhouse was, if nothing else, _quiet._   He’d always thought himself accustomed to being alone with his own thoughts, but this was something else entirely.  The woman—Isabela—and the dwarf left late that first night, and noise, laughter, and raucous conversation left with them; Fenris overheard enough to learn they usually stayed at an inn in Lothering (and from that he inferred they—though more specifically Isabela—had a distaste for the sorts of early mornings that were commonplace on a farm).  However, the resultant quiet was not unpleasant; on the contrary, it was peaceful, so very peaceful that it left him restless.  And that restlessness gave way to agitation.

The fact that the hunters had managed to ambush him so effectively still grated, and though Fenris believed Hawke when she said they were all dead, he knew too well that Danarius would send more.  He was relentless, determined, and, above all, proud.  Any reprieve at all depended heavily on how long it took for anyone to realize those hunters were dead.  With no small amount of luck, the trail would be cold by the time anyone realized the latest team of hunters had failed to capture him.  The road was a heavily traveled one, and other travelers—to say nothing of weather—likely, _hopefully_ would have marred any tracks beyond the point of recognition.  

But even that would not stop the hunters, only delay them.  They had their methods, and while recent events had surely bought him _time,_ there was no way to tell how much.  One thing was certain, and that was he could not linger here longer than necessary.  Once he was healed, once he could travel, he had to leave and make way to Amaranthine; from there, Kirkwall.

After Kirkwall… Fenris didn’t know.  But the city was large enough for him to disappear for a time, allowing him an opportunity to plan his next move.  Perhaps he’d leave Agrippa with Hawke as thanks for her assistance, and travel the distance to Amaranthine on a hired horse—he hadn’t the coin to book sea transport for his mare, and even if he did, the horse was as easily recognized as he was, and he’d have less need for a mount in Kirkwall.  From what he’d seen, even given his limited view from the bedroom window, the Hawke farm’s acreage was not insignificant.  A great deal depended on what Hawke had to say in the matter, but it was an idea worth considering.

This led his thoughts back around to Amelle Hawke, and it was far from the first time his thoughts had traveled in such a direction since he’d woken here.  He’d been certain, _so very_ certain he’d been caught, that he’d have to cut a swath through his captors, and he’d simply _acted_ , without pausing to think, to assess, to gauge the situation.  He’d been disoriented.  It had nearly gone badly.

Insofar as Hawke was concerned, she left him alone for the most part.  She brought him meals on a tray and stayed to deliver a rush of healing magic to his recovering injuries, but she never entered without a purpose, and though she spoke with him while she worked, she tended not to linger or speak… unnecessarily, and whether this was due to a dislike for small talk or a lingering dislike of him, he did not know.  She frequently brought books when she came to see him, and though Fenris flipped through them, he found he had difficulty concentrating enough on the words to make any sort of sense of them.  But still, Hawke brought them, and by the second day a sizable collection had accumulated on top of the dresser.  

Mostly he rested (restlessly) and submitted (somewhat less restlessly) to several applications of healing magic each day.   If he felt he was healing slowly, it only served as a reminder that his injuries had been very severe, and nothing so easily remedied with a potion of poultice.  Truth be told, he’d never been on the receiving end of a spirit healer’s ministrations, but he had no doubt that was precisely what Amelle Hawke was.  A spirit healer, and one with significant power, one who had—and Fenris had no illusions about this—saved his life.  He still wasn’t sure how he felt about that knowledge, but whatever his opinions were, it did not alter the material point.  There was now a debt between them, and it was one he fully intended to repay.

That morning, he’d risen early, as was his custom—it was an easy habit to maintain on a farm, when Hawke and her mother rose with the sun as well—and was fully dressed by the time Hawke rapped lightly and came in, balancing his breakfast on a tray.  She was dressed differently this morning—carrying the tray, she backed into the room wearing a dress made of a pale, light material that moved with her, embroidered with twining green vines.  It was…  a change from the plain, simply-cut dresses, or the trousers she typically favored during the day.  A purse dangled from her wrist and a bonnet hung at her elbow, swaying gently on green ribbons.

“Good morning,” she said, handing him the tray before pulling a chair up to his bedside.  “Sleep well?”

“As well as can be expected.”

She hung the bonnet and purse from the back of the chair.  “You say that every morning,” she replied, “and I still can’t tell whether it means you slept well.” 

“I did.”

“Oh.  Well that’s a relief.  Mama prides herself on keeping a home where visitors feel comfortable.”  Her mouth twisted into something rueful as she wrinkled her nose.  “As she likes to remind me at every opportunity, since I’m gone so long at a time I might as well _be_ a visitor.”

“Why is that?” He asked the question before he could think better of it, and there was a barely perceptible stutter in Hawke’s movements as she situated herself in the chair, brushing the wrinkles out of her skirt.  

After a moment of thought that lasted little longer than a sliver of a second, she shrugged and said, “I can do the farm a lot more good if I’m _not_ here.  We do well enough with it—it’s a good parcel of land that my father bought—but I can accomplish more if I can make a little extra to pay the help we need.  More than if I tried going out there and plowing the field myself, I can tell you that.”  She fell silent, and though she _looked_ as if she had more to say, Hawke instead pursed her lips and turned her attention to the leg that had been broken, blue-white light flaring around her fingers.  

The sensation was peculiar, and no matter how many times Hawke had funneled healing spell after healing spell into his injuries, he could not quite become accustomed to the thrum of magic, strangely hot and cold all at the same time.  More than that, the lyrium in his skin prickled and reacted to the pulse of magic, and by the time Hawke was finished treating one injury and moving on to the next, Fenris was left with a tingling ache that seemed to reach down to the very marrow in his bones.

Then she laid her fingers against his knee, gently prodding at it, a faintly bitter smile at her lips.  “Besides, if I were here all the time, I’d get too comfortable.  I’d start to forget and… slip.  And… well. I don’t want that.”

“How do you avoid…” he began, then stopped, certain it wasn’t any of his business to begin with.  “Forgive me.  It is none of my affair.”

“How do I avoid the templars, you mean?”  At his nod, she thought a moment, then tilted her head at him.  “All right, but if you go tattling to them, I’ll be incredibly put out.”  Threads of light and energy pulsed forward from her fingers again, this time sinking into his knee.  “I expend mana,” she explained.  “Vast amounts of it,  more than I can hope to replenish in even a day.  I keep my mana levels as low as I can.  Between that and taking great pains _not_ to call attention to myself, I manage to stay just outside their notice.”  The light faded, and she frowned, poking and prodding at the joint.  “Mm, yes, that’s better.  Anyway, as I was saying—vast mana expenditure.  Sometimes Varric and Isabela find someone who needs healing, and lots of it, and they bring me to him—or her.  For instance, while we’re traveling through mining towns, they’ll usually find someone who’s lyrium-sick.  And let me tell you, nothing’ll drain mana like trying to purge lyrium sickness out of somebody.  That usually does the trick, and with as _many_ mining towns as are around…”

“There are many opportunities for you to… manage this,” he finished for her.  Hawke nodded.

“Sometimes there just aren’t people who need healing, though.”  She shrugged again.  “Or they need the healing but are too afraid of getting help from a mage to accept it.  And then I’ve got to get creative.  So, if we’re in the middle of nowhere and come into a thunderstorm, I’ll add lightning to it.  If we hit snow, I add ice.  Just enough to keep myself undetectable.”  She grinned, then, looking all too pleased with herself.  “Which is why I’m doing this _now,_ before heading into town.  My mana won’t hit bottom—that’s not a pretty sight—but if I expend enough now, then I won’t invite notice later.”

His meal finished, Hawke moved the tray and turned her attention to his hip; that joint seemed to resist healing more than his knee, he noticed.  Only an hour after Hawke had treated him the day before, his hip had frozen up and began aching all over again.  When Fenris told Hawke this, she nodded slowly.

“I’m not surprised.  You’re healing well—better than I’d even expected, tell you the truth.  But only movement and activity will keep everything supple.  How’s the collarbone?  Feeling any discomfort around the shoulders?”  When he shook his head, she nodded and then prodded gently at the arm that had been shot.  “And how are you coming along there?” she asked, fingertips finding the site of the healed bullet wound with surprising accuracy. 

“Well enough.”

“I’ll take that to mean you’re feeling better.”

“I am.”

At this, Hawke leaned back in the bedside chair and regarded him levelly.  “There’s no doubt you’re coming along well,” she said, rubbing absently at her hands.  “I definitely think you need more rest, but I’ve repaired the _damage,_ at least.  The repaired muscle and joints are… new,” she explained, reaching behind her and collecting the bonnet.  “And as such, they’re going to be weaker than you might be used to.  Your knee and hip were in the worst shape, but that bullet tore up your arm something fierce.  The muscle _is_ fully repaired, but it’s also going to be weak. You’re going to need to rebuild your strength as well as your flexibility.”

Neither strength nor flexibility were to be gained in a sickbed.  It was the best news he’d heard yet.

“May I assume you’re telling me I may leave this bed for more than five minutes at a time?”

She nodded, slipping on the bonnet and tying the ribbon as she spoke.  “If you want, you can take a walking tour of the farm.  But the moment anything starts to ache, rest it.”  Hawke then stood, brushing the wrinkles from her dress, and started for the door.  “I might recommend visiting the barn first.  I suspect your mare misses you,” she said, then hesitated a moment, her hand on the doorknob.  “By the way, what’s her name?”

“Agrippa,” he replied, slowly swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“Oh,” she murmured.  “On second thought, that might be why she’s been so cranky. I’ve been calling her ‘Freckles.’”

Preparatory to standing, Fenris paused and looked at her.  “Freckles,” he echoed.

“It’s not like you were available for consultation,” she replied with a shrug.  “You’ve been _resting_.”

_“Freckles,_ ” he said again, more incredulously than the last.

“Hey, there’s _nothing wrong_ with that name,” came Hawke’s cross retort.

He arched an eyebrow at her.  “And what is your own animal’s name?”

Hawke looked at him a long moment.  “Falcon,” she sniffed.

“Falcon… for a Hawke?” he said, allowing himself a dry chuckle.  “I suppose that was meant to be clever?”

And then Hawke did the strangest thing.  She _blushed._   He felt his eyebrow creep higher.  The silence stretched out, filling the room until it was near to overwhelming before she blurted, somewhat defensively, “I was _younger_ when he was born—my father had me name him the night he was foaled—and that might not be his… his _full_ name.  Satisfied?”

As it happened, Fenris found he was not satisfied.  “Your horse…” he said slowly, “has a _full_ _name?_ ”

“I was _young._ ”

“And what…”  Fenris was almost afraid to ask. “What _is_ its full name?”

Narrowing her eyes, Hawke shook her head and tossed back, “Oh, like I’m telling you _now_.”  She opened the door and started through it, and then paused.  “ _Anyway_.  Like I said, I’m headed into Lothering for a bit.  Is there anything you need?”

“I… no.  But I would ask how far the distance is to town?”

“Just a little over two miles,” she replied.  “Why?”

“Perhaps I might accompany you.  As you said, I need the exercise.”

“You’ll also note I said you still need _rest_ ,” she told him, closing the door again and leaning against it.  Hawke crossed her arms, shooting him a look of consternation.  “You’re fit for a stroll around the farm, yes, but not a five mile jaunt.”  She met his glare for several long moments, then shook her head, then pushed away from the door with a sigh and sat down on the corner of the bed.  “I understand you’re feeling… prickly.  Restless.  And I don’t doubt you’ve got your own plans, and you’re looking forward to heading off to wherever it was you were headed.  But I’m also not sure you understand just how badly you were hurt.”  Her smile was wry and crooked.  “I reckon you’ll realize it soon enough after getting out and about, though.  We’ll talk after supper and see how you’re feeling then.”  Tilting her head, her smile turned less wry and more tinged with genuine amusement.  “Feel like joining us at the table?”

“As you’ve already observed, I am feeling restless.  I would welcome any change in scenery at this point.”

“It’ll just be the four of us,” she said, almost apologetically.  “Merrill—she helps out on the farm, mostly with the animals.”  Then Hawke stopped, pressing her lips together pensively.  “She’s a bit of an odd bird, but she’s got a good heart.”  Another pause, before she added in a somewhat pointed undertone, “I’d rather _not_ see you try to crush it.”

“This is your home, I would not—”

“Merrill _is_ a mage.” She said the words bluntly, and with the edge of a challenge to them.  “I’m telling you that right now, up front, no surprises.  I accept what you told me the other day as truth—you were disoriented and startled, and I can’t blame you for that.  All the same, I don’t want to see it happen again.  And I especially don’t want to see it happen around—or _to_ —the people most important to me.  Or over Mama’s pie, which she is making particular for the occasion of you coming down to join us for dinner.”

“While I have little cause to like mages—”

“So complimentary, Fenris.  Maker, you’ll make me blush.”  Fenris glared at this, but Hawke only shrugged.  “I wanted to give you some warning in advance.  What you do with it is your business.”

“Very well,” he said finally.  “I… appreciate the notice.”

This appeared to satisfy her and, with a nod, she stood again.  “You’re sure there’s nothing you need from town?”

“No,” he replied, “not at this time.”  He would need to replace some articles of clothing at some point; the shirt and trousers he’d been wearing were both torn and bloody and, he strongly suspected, would find their way to a burn pile before long.  That didn’t leave him with much.  It was hardly a priority; he would deal with the matter later, if he dealt with it at all.  Perhaps it could keep until he reached Kirkwall.

“All right.  I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”  She smiled then, revealing a dimple in her left cheek.  “Try to stay out of trouble.”  With that, Hawke swept out of the room with a rush of skirts and closed the door behind her.  Her footsteps thudded down the stairs and out of the house; through his open window, he heard her call for Merrill, and by the time Fenris reached the window, bracing his hands against the sill, he caught sight of Hawke deep in conference with a short, slight elf with dark hair.  Hawke tilted her head and pointed at something in the barn and Merrill shook her head.  At this news, whatever it was, Hawke’s shoulders slumped and she nodded, then reached out to give Merrill’s shoulder a squeeze before turning her steps toward the road.

#

Lothering wasn’t a large town.  It wasn’t even large-ish.  But it and its people did well enough.  The soil was fertile, if occasionally rocky, and most of its farmers traveled up to Redcliffe to sell their wares.  It was a damn sight better than most of the mining towns they’d stopped in, with its modest, tree-lined town square and the chantry, standing tall and bright above all the other buildings.  The day was pleasant and cool and Amelle lingered by shopfront windows as she made her way past the general store (she needed to place an order for more flasks and jars), the dressmaker (something floaty and impractical in butter-yellow muslin caught her eye), and the feed store (Falcon really did need a new bit for his bridle), finally stopping at the apothecary and pushing her way inside. 

The dim shop smelled sharply of roots and medicinal herbs, most stored in heavy glass jars, lined up upon floor-to-ceiling shelves, some of which had begun to sag under the considerable weight.  Some plants hung drying from the rafters, and a fair few hung low enough that they brushed the top of Amelle’s head as she walked into the tiny shop.  Old Mathers—who was at least half a head shorter than Amelle and ran no risk of hitting the hanging herbs—stood behind the battered counter, painstakingly measuring out dried spindleweed onto a set of scales, holding his breath as he added flake after brittle flake of the plant until the scales balanced.  Then he swept the lot of it into a paper packet and exhaled in a rush.  Given the color of his face, Amelle found herself wondering just how long he’d been holding his breath that way.  When he looked up and saw her, his wrinkled face split into a wide grin and he sealed the packet up, tied it with twine, and set it aside.

“Well m’girl, as I live and breathe,” he said, blinking owlish eyes made even more owlish by the spectacles he wore.  “Haven’t seen you around these parts for a while, have we?”

“Only got back into town a few days ago,” she explained.  “And I had to help my mother get a few things squared away first.”

He nodded his approval at her priorities.  “Good, good.  And how’re you set for supplies?”

“Oh, I’m well and truly cleaned out,” she said with a pleased grin.  “But I’ll have a proper list written up for you once I know when we’ll be leaving again.  I expect I’ll stay at least through the planting season.”

He made a note in a ledger balancing precariously on the edge of the counter.  “Just remember,” he said, “I need to order the frostrock special.  Takes a while to get it down from the mountains.”

“Fair enough.  I think if you duplicate my last frostrock order, then, that should be all right.”  She considered it, then nodded slowly.  “Yes, let’s place the order for the frostrock now, I’ll get back to you on the rest in a few weeks.” 

Mathers peered at her over his glasses.  “That’s all then?”

“Not… exactly,” she said, fingers twisting in the strings of her purse.  “I need something else.  Something… particular.”

He waved a hand at the endless shelves.  “You haven’t asked me yet for something I couldn’t locate for you, my girl.”

But when she told the apothecary what it was she needed, he grew serious, the owlish eyes narrowing in concern.  “Well, I’ve got what you need to make it, that’s true enough.  But I’m not sure I like the idea of you playing around with that, though.  Not going to try and sell it, are you?”

“Maker, no,” Amelle answered immediately.  “This is… for something else entirely.  And I don’t need much.”

“No, you don’t, potent as it is,” Mathers grumbled as he climbed the heavy wooden ladder to one of the highest shelves.  He pulled a heavy jar into his arms, and carefully navigated his way back down again, repeating the trip several times as he collected ingredients.  He measured out each item with twice as much care as he had the spindleweed, and then tucked it all away in a flat, paper-wrapped parcel.

“Thank you,” she said, handing over payment as she took the packet.

“Not sure if you ought to be thanking me for that, missy.”  

She pressed her lips into a line, but didn’t reply.  Instead, she tapped her fingers against the parcel.  “And how might one… administer it?”

Mathers scowled at her over his spectacles, then leaned in closer, resting his forearms against the scarred countertop.  “If that’s for you,” he said, his voice low, “let me tell you right now you don’t want to take it undiluted.  Make it a tincture—a few drops of that in a little vial of laudanum’ll more than suffice, if you’ve got in mind what I think you’ve got in mind.”

“Oh, what makes you think I’ve got anything in mind?” she asked, blinking guilelessly at him.

The old man just scowled at her.  “Don’t you try and fool me there, missy.  I knew your father, and you’re nothin’ if not the fruit from that tree.  Remember, make a tincture, and use it _sparingly._ ”

“Yes, sir,” she said, dropping a little curtsey.

“Don’t need none of your sass, neither,” he grumbled, putting away the jars, the ladder creaking as he climbed and descended, twice as spry as a man half his age.  “You just promise me you’ll be careful, Mely.  You’re my best customer, y’know.”

“And you’re the best apothecary for miles.”

He gave a little _hmph._ “And don’t  you forget it.”

The day was bright enough that Amelle had to blink a few times after coming out of the little shop, then turned her steps toward the feed store, and if she _happened_ to wander into the dressmaker’s, she could hardly be blamed, could she?  It was _right there—_

“And what are _you_ up to, kitten?” a painfully familiar voice drawled.

Clamping her teeth together and smiling was about the only thing Amelle could do to keep herself from swearing  out loud as she whirled around to face Isabela.  Deftly, she slipped the little packet into her purse.

But not deftly enough, as it turned out.

“Up to?” she asked brightly, lifting her shoulders in a shrug.  “I’m just picking up a few things for Mama, getting a bit of fresh air—that’s a _beautiful_ frock, ‘Bela, is it new?  That shade of blue is so becoming on you.”

Isabela flashed a smile, tossing her hair a bit as she turned, the ocean-blue gown flaring out a little as she did.  “It _is_.  Don’t you just love it?”

“Oh, I do.  We haven’t seen anything that nice since—”

“Since Denerim, I know,” she replied, taking a peek at her reflection in the shop window and preening a little.  “I’ve been on the lookout for a hat, but haven’t found anything quite right just yet.”

The next thing Amelle knew, Varric was holding a particularly familiar paper parcel up between two fingers.  “And from the looks of things, Rivaini hasn’t been the only one doing some shopping today.”

Sputtering, Amelle made a grab for the packet, snatching it and shoving it into her purse again, this time taking care to pull the drawstring _shut._   “Excuse me,” she hissed, “that is my _private property._ ”

“Yeah, sort of figured as much, especially given the part where I just lifted it out of your purse.”

“You aren’t even remotely sneaky, you know,” Isabela said mournfully, falling into step with her, tucking her arm through Amelle’s.  Varric walked along on the other side.  “What did I tell you about the magebane, kitten?” Isabela asked, lowering her voice.

“Plenty,” Amelle sighed.

“And yet you insist on ignoring me.  Varric, make her listen to me.”

“Something make you think that I’ve got power like that, Rivaini?” Varric drawled.

“Well, you are damnably persuasive.”

“Way I see it,” he replied with a shrug, “Hawke’s going to do what Hawke’s going to do.  You think it’s a bad idea and I think it’s a bad idea, and by my count that means two-thirds of us—a majority—think it’s a bad idea.  Maybe Hawke just needs to figure that part out for herself.”

“And I do _understand_ your concern,” she told them both.  “Truly, I do.  And believe me when I say I’ve thought this over carefully and have given the matter all due consideration.  I promise you both, I will proceed with _caution._ ”

Shrugging, Varric looked up at Isabela.  “See?  Best you can do is save up your _I told you sos_ till you need them.”

Isabela glared at Amelle, bare arms crossed over her chest.  “Yes, I’m sure they’ll be all the sweeter for my having waited.”

“I really do love how _supportive_ you both are,” Amelle grumbled.  They were now inescapably _past_ the dressmaker’s and as Amelle pushed into the general store, she let out an annoyed sigh.  “Really, it warms my heart.”

“And speaking of hearts and the chests they beat in, how’s Broody?” Varric asked, following her into the shop.

“No more… repeat performances, I hope?” Isabela added.

“No repeat performances,” she said, shaking her head.  

“He ever give you any decent explanation for any of that?” Varric asked, his expression saying all too clearly, _because he sure as the Void should have._

“It’s something to do with his tattoos.  Beyond that, he was confused and disoriented, and I haven’t got any reason to believe he’ll try it again.”

Varric shot her a skeptical glance.  “And you believe him?”

She thought about it, and nodded slowly.  “You know, I… I do believe him.  He’s been… well, not _friendly,_ but he’s been civil since our little altercation.  In any case, I don’t expect he’ll be hanging around too much longer—he’s recovering well.”  Amelle frowned a little.  “Quickly, too.”

“I can think of worse things, considering the shape he was in when we found him,” remarked Varric.  “You figure he’s going to be a fixture at your place for much longer?”

Amelle shrugged, placing her order for flasks and jars—it was a quick errand; much like the case with the apothecary, Amelle had a standing order at the general store as well—and then lingered over the display of sweets.  “It depends on him.  He’s free to stay or go as he sees fit.”  She shrugged, looking longingly at the giant glass jar of candied ginger.  “He’s said he feels he needs to repay me—” here Amelle stopped short and shot Isabela a glare before she could open her mouth “—which may mean he’ll stay long enough to help with the planting.”

“Oh, do you think he’ll _man the plow?_ ” Isabela asked.

Amelle tried very hard not to sigh, and then indulged in a small bag of candied ginger, handing over the coin for it and popping a piece into her mouth before tucking the bag away in her purse.  She bit down, letting the candy’s hot-sweet tang dissolve upon her tongue. “I am not dignifying that remark with a reply of any sort, Isabela” she said, nodding her goodbye at the shopkeeper and bustling out the door before Isabela could say anything else.

Which she did, in very short order.

“What, don’t want him to,” and here she paused deliberately—to say nothing of dramatically—her grin positively salacious, “ _plow your field?_ ” 

This time Amelle did sigh.


	5. Chapter 5

Once Hawke had left, Fenris pulled on his boots and began the trek downstairs, noting every twinge that shot up from his legs with each step.  He gripped the bannister a little more tightly and took particular care as he moved.  His right leg was more recovered than the left, it seemed, though he took care not to favor the left overmuch.  As he made his way carefully downstairs, he took in the house.  There were four bedrooms on the second floor, the narrow stairway he was currently maneuvering leading down to the ground floor.  To one side, a sitting room with a large fireplace, and a kitchen on the other—a quick glance in the latter revealed it to be empty for the moment, but its absent occupant was clearly in the middle of a vast undertaking; ingredients of all kinds were laid out upon a long table set just in front of the windows overlooking a garden in the back.  Other doors to other parts of the house were shut tight, but Fenris’ only desire was to find his way out and to wherever the horses were kept.

He gave the screen door a push, its hinges protesting with a long creak as it opened, and he stepped out onto the spacious front porch.  The day was bright enough already that the covered area offered little refuge from the sun creeping ever higher in the sky; it sent its glow across the wooden planks beneath his feet, casting long shadows that would grow shorter as the day wore on. Admittedly, he felt a bit strange walking about when he hadn’t met a single soul beyond Hawke, and she wasn’t even there.  But, he reasoned, she wouldn’t have encouraged him to get out of the house if she hadn’t told any of its other inhabitants of his presence. 

Then again, it was entirely possible she’d done precisely _that_ and simply had a sadistic sense of humor into the bargain.  

Lifting a hand to shade his eyes, Fenris stepped down off the porch, casting about a moment.  He spied a large barn, a smaller building that was likely a chicken coop, and several other structures of varying size that could have served any number of purposes from feed shed to equipment storage.  It was the barn he was interested in; as he drew closer, the snorts and nickers he heard from within were unmistakably horse-like, and he quickened his steps as much as he was able.

There was a young man in the shade the large building supplied, repairing a plow; inside, Fenris caught sight of a young woman—Merrill, he assumed—nimbly climbing the ladder up to the hayloft.

“Look out below!” her voice rang out after a moment.  Shortly thereafter, a bale of hay was tossed down, landing with a crunch as dust and seeds and bits and pieces of hay flew out and upward, the golden sunlight catching each and every speck and mote.  

Fenris stepped wide, with one eye trained on the loft for any more falling bales, and quickly found Agrippa.  She was chewing placidly on a mouthful of hay, and the only indication she gave that she was happy to see him was a slight pricking-forward of her ears.  Running one hand down her long snout, he took a closer look at his mare; she was more relaxed than he could ever remember having seen her.  As he rubbed her nose, Agrippa’s eyes slowly shut, and she pressed against his hand, turning her head to nuzzle his palm.

“I haven’t any sugar for you,” he murmured.  Agrippa only snorted and continued nuzzling, her ministrations interspersed with the occasional nibble.

“Oh, that’s the most she’s perked up in _days,_ ” said a voice from behind.  “Amelle said she was likely missing you.”

Fenris turned to find the elf he was ever more certain was Merrill.  Her dark, braided hair still bore bits of hay and seed, which she appeared not to mind in the least.

“You must be Fenris,” she chattered sunnily.  Taking a hasty moment to wipe her palm against her legs, she extended one hand, which, after a moment, he took.  Her clasp was strong, and her handshake… exuberant.  “I’d hate to cut your visit short, but I was just about to turn the horses out.  It’s a bit later than they normally go, but the plow went this morning, and it’s being rather stubborn about letting itself get fixed.  Tomas is working on it now—he’ll probably have better luck than I did, at any rate, it’s such a _heavy_ thing.  I know it hardly makes any difference to the horses.”  A loud whinny cut through the barn.  “Well,” she amended.  “Except for Falcon.  But I think that’s just because he’s glad to be home.  So he’s a little impatient.  Oh!  But if you wanted to walk her down to the pasture while I get the other mares, you could do that.  You know, if you wanted to visit a little longer.”

In the end, he handled Agrippa and another mare, while Merrill followed with three more.  It felt _good_ to walk, to stretch his stiff muscles.  For all that Hawke had warned him that he’d find his repaired joints weak, he was experiencing no such weakness now.  After turning the mares out to pasture, he followed Merrill back without another word and silently assisted her with the geldings and stallions—the lot of them seemed to be incredibly well-tempered, and after a few shoves and other shows of dominance, the horses—Falcon included—scattered themselves across the pasture.

With that task complete, Merrill returned to the barn while Fenris strode back to the pasture where the mares were kept. Leaning against the fence, he watched as Agrippa broke into a gallop, her pale tail streaming out behind her as she stretched her legs, muscles working and flexing beneath her pale coat, hooves pounding the soft earth in a rhythm he knew as well as his own heartbeat.  Several of the other mares chewed sedately at the grass, one shouldering the other out of the way at one point, but Agrippa ran along the far side of the pasture, heedless of the others.

He envied her that, for a moment—to be able to move freely, without wariness or suspicion dogging every step.  Doubtless she would evade if someone she did not know attempted to capture or steal her, but his mare knew nothing of _precaution_ and the necessity of it.

Her burst of speed expended, Agrippa gradually slowed, eventually stopping by a patch of clover, far from the other mares.  Lowering her head, she tore away a mouthful of green and began to graze placidly, her tail swishing as it flicked away the occasional fly.  He took in her equine contentment a moment longer before turning away and heading back to the house.  His route took him past the males’ pasture in time to catch sight of Falcon rolling about on his back, long legs in the air as he scratched himself.  Then, as if sensing Fenris’ gaze, the horse stopped, resting on his side and lifting his head, fixing dark eyes back on him.  Then Falcon clambered to his feet and trotted away to the other side of the pasture, looking strangely as if his dignity had been wounded having been caught behaving so.

The sun was higher now, but the day was cool and the breeze had turned sweet and damp, carrying with it the hint of rain. No clouds yet, but Fenris had no doubt they would come.  As he drew closer to the house, a woman came around the side, carrying a basket.  She stopped short, startled at the sight of him, but upon _looking_ at him something not quite recognition dawned in her eyes.  No, not recognition, but _understanding_.  Her smile was a warm one.

“Amelle said you’d likely be up and around today.  It’s Mr. Fenris, isn’t it?”  

He coughed.  “Just… Fenris will suffice, ma’am.”

She smiled again and gave him a brisk nod.  “All right, Fenris.  It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.  I’m Amelle’s mother.  Name’s Leandra.”

Though he hadn’t seen any resemblance at the start, Fenris now saw… something around the older woman’s eyes and the tilt of her smile that he’d seen on Hawke’s face earlier.  He inclined his head. “I… am grateful for your hospitality, Mrs. Hawke.”

“Please, think nothing of it.  It’s good to know you’re finally up and around—my daughter told me your injuries had been severe,” she said, indicating his leg, “ _and_ I’m supposed to make sure to tell you not to—”

“Overtax myself,” he said, dryly, holding a hand out and tacitly offering to take the basket she carried, which she gave to him without comment.  “She gave me the very same warning before her departure this morning.”

“Well,” she replied on a laugh, “if nothing else, Amelle is thorough.”  The two of them climbed the steps to the porch and when Fenris looked down, he found the basket to be heavy with strawberries.  “They’re the first of the season,” she supplied, catching his look.  “And there are few things my Amelle likes better than early strawberry pie.”

“She mentioned you’d intended to make one,” he said, holding the door open as Mrs. Hawke swept into the house.  Though it hadn’t been his intention, he trailed after her into the kitchen where she stood by the long table, took the basket from him and dumped the contents onto a thin cloth.  Then, pulling a paring knife from the pocket of her apron, she began briskly hulling and quartering the strawberries, dropping the pieces into a heavy white bowl.

“Did she now?” she asked, deft fingers never slowing as the silver of the knife flashed in the morning sunlight.  “I don’t suppose she mentioned all the wheedling she did first, convincing me to make one.”

Clearing his throat, Fenris shook his head.  “I admit, she… did not.”

“Imagine my surprise,” the older woman said on a chuckle.  She worked her way through several more strawberries before sending him a sidelong glance.  “Pull up a chair and sit if you’d like.  I doubt you ought to be on your feet after all that.”  

He hesitated long enough to feel foolish for hesitating, then pulled a chair from the other end of the table and sat down, watching Mrs. Hawke work.  “I am much better than I was,” he admitted.

“Amelle’s always had a knack for healing,” her mother said, a note of pride evident in her voice.  “Lucky thing she came across you.  _Bandits._   I can’t imagine.”

Fenris opened his mouth to correct her, then leaned back slightly in his chair, pressing his lips together after a second.  That was an odd omission, but seemed a… deliberate one.  Instead of correcting Mrs. Hawke, he watched her hands for a second or two before asking, hesitantly, “Is there anything I may do to… help?”

Her hands stilled and she sent him a look.  “Do you know how to make a pie, Fenris?”

“Ah.  No,” he admitted, after a pause.

“Well,” she said brightly, pushing the bowl of quartered berries in front of him, “I can think of no time like the present for someone to learn.”

“…Learn?”

“To make a pie.  Handy skill, you know.”  She handed over the small knife, its handle slapping lightly against his palm.  “Never know when it’s going to come in useful.”

His expression, he was sure, was incredulous, but Mrs. Hawke appeared not to notice—something that made she and her daughter resemble each other all the more.  Even so, anything was better than more bedrest.  Still skeptical, to say nothing of _uncertain_ , Fenris abandoned his seat and stood, working slowly—the knife was small in his hand, its handle strangely delicate, and the strawberries were likewise small and too easily crushed—and as he went, Hawke’s mother gently corrected both his grip on the knife’s handle and his treatment of the berries.  

“Careful, dear—cut them too small and they’ll turn to mush while the pie’s baking.”  He adjusted accordingly, hulling and quartering while Mrs. Hawke watched, a smile hovering at her lips.  “We’ve always had berries in the garden, and there hasn’t been a single year since she was old enough to find mischief on her own that Amelle didn’t manage to gorge herself on them.  Strawberry season is bad, but blackberry season’s worse.”

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, then looked down again at the slowly growing pile of perfect red fruit.  “Surely not now that she’s older.”

“Oh, you just watch her tonight with this pie.  If she doesn’t stuff herself sick on it, I’m Andraste herself.”

Allowing himself a low chuckle, he asked, “She is your… only child, then?”  Her smile faded quickly enough that he felt a burning rush of embarrassment for asking.  “Forgive me, it’s none of my—”

“You didn’t know,” she broke in. “No harm done—I… don’t see how you could have known.”  Several beats of silence passed before she said, “Three.  We had… two other children.  Amelle was the oldest, and then we had the twins.  Carver—it’s his room you’re staying in; he’s up in Kirkwall now.  We… lost Bethany some years back.”  Her voice went soft as she said, “Maker, it’ll be five years this summer.  Hardly seems possible.”

The burning upon his cheeks doubled as the skin at the nape of his neck prickled with discomfiture at the sorrow in the older woman’s voice.  “I am… sorry for your loss,” he managed, feeling entirely out of his depth, even as he kept his eyes on the silver blade as it sliced through tender red fruit.

“Thank you.  I do appreciate it.”  She breathed a soft sigh, watching him work.  “We all took it badly, but I’m not sure anyone took it harder than Carver.  It wasn’t long after that he left home to join up with the templars.”

One halved berry slipped from his fingers and landed in among the quartered fruit.  “Your son is a templar?” he blurted.  “But…”

“But his sister’s a mage?” she finished for him, lifting her brows.

He nodded, retrieving the strawberry and cutting it again as Leandra Hawke took up another paring knife and began hulling and quartering alongside him.  “It’s not as bad as it could be, I suppose.  Carver understands the importance of family, and that’s a blessing.  But…” she trailed off and let out a long breath, “those two were always at loggerheads, I’m afraid.  Even if Amelle wasn’t a mage, Carver always got so _frustrated_ with her.  Can’t say as Amelle ever made it easy on him, but that’s… just her way.  If she made a joke, Carver accused her of never taking things seriously enough.  If she took them seriously, he thought she was just being bossy.  _Controlling._   Amelle would try to make nice, and Carver would lose his temper, and then Mely would try again, never realizing she was just rubbing salt in the wound.  She’s not a _bad_ girl, but she’s… well.  She’s her own person, true enough.  Sometimes so much so that she stubs her toe on it.”

Hawke’s words from the other day came floating back to him.  _If I say you stay off the leg, you stay off the leg.  If I say it’s time for a poultice, it’s time for a poultice._ Perhaps _controlling_ wasn’t quite the word he’d have chosen, but she definitely had the air of authority to her, at least insofar as medicinal matters were concerned.  “And they’ve… not spoken in five years?”

“At least,” she replied on a sigh.  “She’s been doing this for even longer.  I think Carver resented being left behind, while Amelle got to leave, traveling all over Ferelden.  I’m not sure he ever realized she never particularly _wanted_ it.  I imagine it’s probably horribly lonely—thank the Maker she’s got Varric and Isabela—but it’s impossible not to notice how happy she is once she comes home.”

They fell silent, working companionably for a while longer, until the bowl was nearly full of vibrant fruit.

“There, now.  That should be more than enough,” she said, moving to retrieve a heavy glass jar of sugar and a small copper cup from the other end of the table.  “Shall we move on?”

#

Amelle was thankful Varric and Isabela preferred staying in Lothering proper whenever they stopped by this way.  And even though she knew it had more to do with the early mornings they kept on the farm and Isabela’s strong and exceptional dislike of mornings, early or otherwise, she still… valued the time it gave her on the farm, a place where she could be _herself_ —where she could remember who she was in order to be her—where she could relish and drink in this quieter, simpler life, surrounded by the place where she’d grown up.  It… resettled her, centered her, and Maker knew she needed to be centered and settled before she set out and started the madness all over again.

It was a pretty mess she’d gotten herself into, she thought, kicking a rock along the hard-packed dirt as she walked home.  Selling potions all over Ferelden helped pay for the extra hands that kept the farm successful and solvent, it helped pay for repairs and new equipment—coin that would have otherwise had to come from the farm itself.  Now, the money the farm earned… went back into the farm.  

Maybe she could stop traveling for a spell.  Maybe she could stay here and make herself useful.  

  _Oh, that’s a capital idea.  Stay here and just wait for someone to notice something odd, like how your livestock never sickens.  Merrill never catches anyone’s curiosity because she’s_ Merrill _.  You are not Merrill._

She couldn’t stay, and she didn’t want to go.  And nothing at all stood a chance of changing so far as that was concerned.

Amelle chewed thoughtfully on another piece of ginger as she left the road, slowly tromping down a gently sloping hill, her steps cutting a path through the tall grass.  A gust of wind rippled through the grass again and Amelle stopped and took a deep breath in, closing her eyes and tipping her face up toward the sun.  

She _wanted_ to stay.  She was bored with travel, bored with the same patter in every town.  She was bored with crafting the same potions, over and over again.  And maybe it wasn’t the obvious choice if one was looking to avoid boredom, but Amelle _preferred_ life on the farm.  She enjoyed watching the crops, all young and waxy and green, burst forth from the soil, or seeing a mare through her first foal, or a cow through her first calf.  She enjoyed the dirt of it, the grit of it, the _honesty_ of it all.

Perhaps, she thought as wind whipped through her her lawn dress, sending her skirts rippling out behind her, not unlike the way the grass moved all around, _perhaps_ there was a compromise to be reached.  Perhaps she could travel… _less._   Granted, this would mean Varric and Isabela would have to figure out how to make do without her for a time, but they’d been a team long before Amelle had made their acquaintance; she rather doubted they’d be entirely lost without her.

It was something to think about, at any rate. 

 _You never know,_ she thought, swinging her purse as she continued down the hill towards the farm, _maybe it’ll take spending more time around this place to make me realize I’m not cut out for it at all._  

Amelle poked her head briefly into the barn, calling out for Fenris, but only Merrill’s head popped out over the hayloft, dark braids bouncing and swinging as she moved.  “Oh!  You’re back early.”

“A little,” Amelle said, looking around, pulling her bonnet free.  “Have you seen Fenris at all?”

“Only for a moment,” Merrill said.  “He came out for a bit to visit with Freckles—”

“Agrippa,” Amelle corrected her gently, with an apologetic wince.  “Her name’s Agrippa.”

Merrill blinked.  “Creators, that’s an odd name, isn’t it?  Freckles seems to be such a better fit for her, don’t you think?”

Privately Amelle agreed, but she shrugged.  “All the same, that’s her name.”

“Well.  He came out and visited with Agrippa for a while, and he helped me turn the horses out to the pasture—it’s a lovely day for it, isn’t it?  He was on his way back to the house when your mother came out of the garden with a basket.  I don’t know what she said to him—the plow handle’s gone all splintery again and Tomas was so _loud_ when he was trying to smooth it out, and I was mucking out the—”

“Don’t worry about it, Merrill.  I just wanted to make sure out guest didn’t overtax himself.”

Merrill tilted her head a moment, looking perplexed, even as the blood continued to rush to her head, turning her cheeks pink.  “Your mother did give him the basket to carry, but I don’t suppose that was terribly heavy.”

Amelle waved up at her as she turned and started out of the barn.  “Don’t worry about it, I’ll see what she’s up to.”

The path up from the barn approached the house on the side, and as she drew closer she heard the familiar timbre of her mother’s voice and saw a flash blue as she walked by one of the kitchen windows.  Tilting her head, Amelle moved even closer to the nearest kitchen window until she could make out what her mother was saying.

Amelle angled herself to get a better look into the kitchen.  What she saw, though, made her stop and _stare._   Her mother and, Maker help her, _Fenris,_ were standing side by side at the worktable overlooking the back garden.  A pile of strawberries, all red and glistening and perfectly delicious looking, were in front of them, and Fenris held in his hand one of Mama’s deadly-sharp paring knives.  Mama held the other, and together they were hulling and cutting strawberries, dropping the pieces in the low, wide bowl Mama always used.

They were making a _pie._ It was, far and away, the damnedest thing she’d ever seen.  Once the berries were hulled and quartered, Mama nudged the bowl in front of Fenris and swept to the other end of the table, gathering the sugar and a few other ingredients before handing over a spoon and measuring cup.

“There, now.  That’s more than enough,” she said.  “Shall we move on?” 

Fenris’ answer was in the affirmative, though he looked wary as hell about it.  Amelle pressed fingers to her lips to stifle a chuckle.

They worked in silence a few minutes longer. “Be careful with the sugar, dear,” she said, shaking her head.  “The early berries are still a hair tart, but that’s part of their charm.  Don’t want to bury that bite under too much sweet.”

At her mother’s gentle admonition, Fenris’ brow furrowed in either concentration or frustration—she couldn’t tell—but with a much lighter hand he scattered spoonfuls of sugar over the berries.  Mama talked him through several more steps, all of which Fenris followed, his expression one of such _intense_ concentration, she could scarcely believe he was making a _pie._ A _pie._

Tamping down on her laughter, Amelle stomped her way up onto the porch, making even more noise than she might have done ordinarily, and pushed open the screen door.

“Maker’s breath, Mama,” she said genially, leaning in the doorway and watching them, her bonnet swinging lazily from its ribbons, “Fenris is supposed to be _recovering._   Not baking _pies._ ”

At the sound of her voice, Fenris’ shoulders went strangely rigid and he turned, his expression patently neutral.  “It was no trouble,” he said, stiffly.

“You should consider yourself lucky,” she told him with a grin.  “Mama’s strawberry pie is the best from here to Highever.  She doesn’t let just anyone in on the recipe.”

“Now, Amelle,” her mother began, somewhat reproachfully, “your guest looked a bit at loose ends—”

“So you thought you’d teach him to _bake_ ,” interrupted Amelle with a playful grin.

“—And,” Mama went on, blithely ignoring her, “very gallantly offered to help.”

Fenris looked uncomfortable, and Amelle wondered if it was being called _gallant_ that did it.  Her own smile warmed to one far less teasing.  “I’m not quite sure standing for so long is any better for your legs than a walk into town would have been.  How are you feeling?”

“Much improved,” he replied, inclining his head.  “…Thank you.”

Any surprise Amelle might’ve felt at the fact Fenris was _thanking_ her was soon overshadowed when her mother said, “And don’t be silly, Mely—I had Mister Fenris _sit_ at first.  He’s not been on his feet terribly long now.”  Then she added, on a laugh, “Maker, what kind of slavedriver do you take me for?”

Amelle’s smile froze as Fenris’ expression went strangely blank.

“Well,” Amelle said, her bright tone sounding forced to her ears as she crossed the room, resting a hand on Fenris’ uninjured shoulder, “if you’re feeling so much improved, perhaps you’ll introduce me properly to Agrippa.  She looked fit to bite me when I was calling her Freckles.”

“I… yes,” came his halting reply.

“I assume you can part with your assistant for a short while, Mama?” Amelle asked.  At Mama’s “Of course, darling,” Amelle took Fenris’ arm in hers and carefully, but quickly, steered him out of the kitchen and out of the house.

“She didn’t know,” Amelle finally explained in a low tone, once they were halfway out to the pasture.  The clouds above were thickening and the wind had begun to pick up.  Not enough to think about pulling the horses in just yet, but enough to know things could turn that way.  “We told her you were overrun by bandits.”

“You didn’t want your mother knowing you aided a slave?” he asked, an edge to his voice.

Amelle’s steps came to an abrupt stop as she spun on her heel to face Fenris.  “Don’t be an idiot,” she said shortly.  Fenris shot her a sharp glare and Amelle went on to explain.  “My mother worries enough.  And slavers are an entirely different kind of danger from what one typically meets up with on the road.  Bandits are more… common, by comparison.  It had nothing to do with you.”  His glower subsided, a little.  “Besides,” she went on, “bandits are just men looking to take what doesn’t belong to them.  Same could be said about slavers.”

The glower subsided just a little more.  “Neither did you tell her about—”

“About that little stunt after you woke up?” she asked, keeping her voice down.  “No, I did not.  I took you at your word and so far you haven’t given me reason to regret doing that.”

“And I will not.”

“Then as far as I see it, the subject’s closed.”

Something about her words appeared to surprise Fenris, and for just a sliver of a second, he looked like he was of a mind to argue with her.  But instead he simply shook his head and they began walking again.  It wasn’t long before they reached the pasture, where Agrippa still stood apart from the other mares, and looking none too bothered by the solitude.

“She’s a lovely animal,” Amelle said, resting her arms on the fencing.

“It was not always so,” he replied quietly, echoing her stance.  “She is mine only because I paid for her what her previous owner would have received from the glue factory.”  At Amelle’s curious look, he shrugged.  “I had just arrived in Ferelden and was acutely aware of the fact that I would need reliable transportation.  Her owner was a merchant who claimed her to be intractable and unsafe—she kicked, or so he said.  I offered what coin I could for her and he accepted.”

“And?”

“And I suspect she simply didn’t like him,” he replied with a shrug and something close enough to a smile that Amelle found herself enjoying that particular expression.  It did pleasant things to his face, even if it didn’t last half as long as she might’ve liked.

“I suppose that’s why they call it horse-sense.”

They watched the horses in silence for a few minutes before Fenris sent Amelle a sidelong glance.  “Did you find all you required in town?”

“All and a little bit more,” she said.  Her purse still hung from her wrist and she pulled out the small paper sack holding the candied ginger, offering him some.  Though Fenris looked surprised, he took a piece of the candy.  Amelle dug a piece out for herself and chewed contemplatively.  “I expect I’ll have to make a few more trips in the coming days,” she told him, rolling the sweet around in her mouth.

“Is that an invitation?”

She smiled.  “A _tentative_ one.  Let’s see how my repairs hold up first.”


	6. Chapter 6

“And over there’s Star and Annie and Gwen, and that’s Lady, our broodmare,” Hawke said, indicating a stately bay mare with a blaze of white upon its forehead and two white stockings up its front legs.  “She had Annie and Falcon—and another male, but he went up to the Perkins’ place.  His temperament was a bit off.”

“How so?”

“He was a really nasty biter,” she explained, turning around and leaning back against the fence, elbows braced upon the topmost board.  Her expression turned inscrutable for a moment, but she smoothed it away. “He… wasn’t  good fit here, but he was sound, and aside from a few… sensitivities, he was a solid animal.  This farm wasn’t the right place for him, but the Perkinses love him, and he’s a good fit up there.”  

“Do you find that to be the case often?” Fenris asked.  A distant ache began thrumming up from his knee and he lifted one booted foot to rest it upon one of the fence’s lower planks.

“What do you mean?”

“Location being fundamental to happiness.”

Looking around them a moment, Hawke smiled a small, sad smile.  “Absolutely.  In people and animals both.”

Noting her expression, Fenris thought back to his conversation with the elder Hawke. “In yourself, then?”

His words had startled her—surprised her, at the very least.  Hawke blinked several times before turning her head to regard him for a long moment, wavering between wariness and puzzlement.  “There are some places I’m happier than others,” she replied slowly.  Green eyes focused a moment on the middle distance before lifting to meet his gaze again.  “How’re you doing?”

He considered a falsehood, then shrugged.  “My injuries are… reminding me of their presence, but the discomfort is quite tolerable.”

That wary, puzzled look vanished beneath a crooked grin.  “You _really_ don’t want to go back to the house, do you?”

He conceded this with a grimace.  “I am unaccustomed to such inactivity.”

“Perhaps a turn about the farm, then,” she said, pushing off the fence and brushing her hands down the front of her dress.  “A little tour.”  

“Very well,” he replied, stepping away from the fence and joining her.  

Hawke held both hands behind her back as they walked, a small purse bouncing gently with the movement.  She led him past the other pasture, where the stallion and geldings were kept.  “I assume you’ve met Falcon,” she said, indicating her horse currently standing in the shade of an ancient, gnarled oak tree, scratching his back against its bark.  “The stallion’s Horace, and then there’s Possum, the grey one right over there’s, um… well, Warden.  Then there’s Maric, Remigold—but we call him Remy—and Bill.”  There must have been something she saw in his expression, because she went on to explain, “Bill, Warden, and Possum are the plow horses.  Good to have alternates in case someone throws a shoe or goes lame or colicky.  Remigold is Mama’s horse, and I’m sure you’ll not find a more spoiled beast anywhere.  Maric was my brother’s.”

“Your… brother, whose room I am currently using.”

“Yes,” she said, her tone growing short.  “Carver.”  He didn’t say anything more, and in the silence Hawke sent him a look from the corner of her eye.  “Mother told you about Carver.”

“Only that he is a templar in Kirkwall.”

Hawke nodded once, lips pressed together in a line.  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t elaborate on that?”

“Of course.”

“Good.”  She took a deep, bracing breath, and let it out through her teeth.  They were just past the pastures and heading towards some of the stone outbuildings.  “And here we’ve got the well, the very exciting chicken coop, and the equally as thrilling feed shed.”  As they walked by, soft clucking came from the coop and the air was heavy with the scent of hay.

“They… are stone,” Fenris observed, frowning up at the structures.  Hawke nodded.  “Is that not an odd choice?”

“When Daddy—when my father bought the land, it had a great deal of rock in the soil.  This was long before I was born, but evidently he got the land for a song, and that was only because of how damned rocky the dirt was.”

“This… all came from…”

She shrugged one shoulder, though Hawke’s expression wasn’t the least bit repentant.  “Daddy was a mage too.  He was just a bit more adept at earth magic than I am, or ever was.  He worked the rock out of the earth and made good use of it.  The house and the barn are the only wooden buildings on the property, mainly because they got built first.  Even the wall along the property line’s made of stone.”  There was no denying the note of pride in her voice, the secretive whisper of a smile at her lips as she rested one hand against the well’s ledge.  “He built it all from the ground up.”  The smile went crooked.  “Literally.”

It was not wasted on Fenris that Hawke spoke of her father in the past tense.  But she didn’t volunteer any additional information, and he did not ask.  They went on past various outbuildings, past a field Hawke indicated would be plowed eventually—preferably sooner than later.

“I ought to have seen about a new plow last time I was in town, but Merrill said Tomas was sure he could fix it.”  She kicked a rough pebble and sighed.  “Not looking like that’s the case, though.”

“Is it a problem?”

“Only as far as wanting to get the planting done before the rainy season hits its stride.  There’s no chore on the Maker’s green earth that rain makes more pleasant.”

“What is it that needs to be done?”

She sent him a curious look.  “Not many farms where you’re from, then?”

“None that I had any direct exposure to.”

“Fair enough.”  

She explained the process to him—plowing and seeding one field while letting the other lay fallow—smiling, even as she outlined what sounded like a particularly labor-intensive process.  Fenris settled into silence afterward, as Hawke led him further past the fields, where the land lifted and swelled into rolling hills.  They stood upon one such hill and Fenris looked out at the space stretching out before him.  A large yew tree, its limbs stretching out and up, stood sentry by a pond, an ages-old rope dangling from a bough.  He could see, in the distance, the stone wall Hawke had described earlier.  He’d never known skies so clear, so unobstructed by buildings; he’d never heard such _peace._   The air smelled clean, and for a moment, a bare, tiny sliver of a moment, something in him lifted, and he knew how Agrippa must have felt, running through the pasture.  

But then, with a breath, the sensation dissipated, reality sinking in once more.

“It is not a small parcel of land, then,” he observed.  Hawke shook her head.

“He got it on the cheap,” she said with a shrug.  “Because of the rocky soil.  You saw what he did about _that._   From what they both used to tell me, the whole piece used to be just as hilly as this.  Daddy worked out the rocks and graded the land.  He had plans, even then.”  Her mouth twisted into a bitter line that she tried to force into a smile, but the attempt was hardly successful.  “Then he died.”

“I am sorry for your loss.”

She shook her head.  “It was some years ago now.”  But the sorrow in her voice told another story.

“Even so, you have my condolences.”

After a long pause, she finally nodded.  “Thank you.”  Then she sent a glance his way and asked, “How are you holding up?”

In truth, as much as he’d enjoyed the exercise, the sites of his injuries had begun a slow, dull throb.  When he shared this with Hawke, she nodded, unsurprised, then lowered herself to the grass, her white skirts spread out on the grass like the last patch of snow in spring.  When he did not join her, she looked up with a crooked smile, and patted the spot next to him.

“Not the most glamorous spot to rest your aching bones, I confess, but the view’s not bad.”

After a moment more, he sat, unable to hide his relief when the pressure on his left knee was alleviated.  Hawke’s look was a knowing one and he shook his head at the unspoken accusation.  “I have not overtaxed myself.  And, as you can see, I am taking your advice.”

“I see that.”  She shifted onto one hip and placed her hands over the aching joint.  “This one’s the worst off right now, isn’t it?”  At his nod, she drew in a breath, concentrating on the spot until her hands glowed blue-white.  In what felt like no time at all, the ache subsided and Fenris let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.  Without another word, she turned her attention to the other knee, and then, indicating he should lie back, Hawke pushed up onto her knees in order to see to his hip.  The hot-cold threads of healing light sunk down into the damaged bone and muscle as the sunlight poured down on them both, as wind rustled through the yew tree—through all the trees—rippling the surface of the pond.

“All done,” Hawke said finally, shaking her fingers out.  “Better?”

“It is,” Fenris answered, still sprawled back, blades of grass tickling his neck and ears.

“We’ll rest here a spell,” she told him, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them, looking out at the land spread out before them.  “Then head back.”

He nodded, and stared up at the clouds, realizing he could not remember the last time he’d done such a thing.  After the hiss of wind whipping through the grass nearly sent him into a doze three separate times, Fenris propped himself onto his elbows and addressed Hawke.

“Yes?” Her gaze never wavered from the expanse of green.

“You have… lived here your entire life?”

“I have,” she said.  

He tried to imagine such a thing.  He couldn’t.  

When Hawke looked over, she read something in his expression.  “What is it?”

“Your farm… appears prosperous.  And yet you—”

“Travel the countryside, hawking my wares?”  Her brows quirked together and she let out a soft laugh.  “Oh, that’s a good one.  I haven’t used that one before.”

“It is a fair question,” he said. 

“And it’s one that if I don’t answer,” she drawled, “Mama might answer _for_ me next pie you help her bake.”

“Hawke,” he said, sitting up further, affronted, “you are not accusing me of manipulating—”

“Oh, Maker, no,” she said, with a vehement shake of her head.  “No, but Mama does enjoy talking with company.  One of the reasons Varric adores her so.” Having mollified him, she went on.  “My father died when I was sixteen or thereabouts.  Carver and Bethany were just thirteen—Bethany’d just come into her magic a couple years before.”

“Your sister—”

“Hell of an argument against anyone who says magic isn’t in the family.”  Her expression hardened as she stared into the middle distance.  “Daddy taught her what he could in the time he had.  I taught her what _I_ could—”  Her throat closed, cutting the words off sharply.  Hawke swallowed hard and bit her lip.

“Your mother… said your sister had died.”

Allowing herself a brief, terse nod, Hawke closed her eyes, taking a moment to collect herself.  “I taught her what I could.  We all worked on the farm, the four of us.  But…”  She combed her fingers through the grass, running her hand back and forth, over and over again.  Finally she plucked a long, green blade and began shredding it into thin ribbons.  “But it became evident to me that we needed more help.  We needed stronger backs.  Repairs.  Equipment.  A whole lot of things we couldn’t afford.  I was about eighteen then.  A fair hand with potions.”

“And you left.”

Hawke shrugged.  “It wasn’t easy, leaving them.  Leaving Bethany, especially—I had… I had so much I wanted to teach her.  But it seemed like what I had to do, at the time.  Being out on my own wasn’t easy, either.  Thank the Maker I met Varric and Isabela when I did, or I might’ve wound up lying in a ditch somewhere.  Eventually I started making a name for myself.”  She dropped what remained of the grass and brushed her hands off.  It seemed an eternity stretched out before she spoke.  “And then…”  A muscle in her jaw flexed and her throat moved as she swallowed hard again.  “And then, she was gone.  And all of my reasons, which had seemed very good at the time…”

“You regret them.”

“I did what I thought was best.”  The words were dull and hollow, as if Hawke had spoken them to herself countless times before.  It was possible she had.  “Now… well.  The money’s good, no doubt about that.  And it helps.  The farm’s been profitable these last few seasons, and that’s one less thing Mama has to worry about.  And if her mage daughter isn’t around to draw attention from unwanted parties, that’s just another thing she doesn’t have to worry about.”

“You have said yourself she worries about you while you are gone.”

Hawke didn’t reply, but the way her shoulders stiffened and then slumped minutely spoke volumes.  “I’m doing the best I can.  If the farm’s profitable, then Mama will be taken care of if I’m ever… caught.  And if I move from town to town, that’s less time for me to attract the attention that will get me caught.”  

“You mentioned there were… other measures you took as well,” he said, watching the clouds grow a dark and thick blue-grey on the horizon.  The wind had picked up and turned cool, carrying with it the scent of rain.  

Her smile was a mirthless one.  “More and more every day, it seems.”

Hawke appeared to be… struggling with something, but before Fenris could either ask her to elaborate, she opened the drawstring purse that still hung from her wrist.  Inside, he saw the small bag of candied ginger she’d offered to him earlier—she pulled it out now—but there, also nestled in the small bag, was a brown paper packet.

She read the question written across his face.  “It’s the ingredients for magebane,” she told him, warily.

“Magebane,” he echoed.

“I’m going to assume you know what that is?”

“Of course I do.”  He nodded at the packet.  “It is illegal in Tevinter.”

“Imagine my surprise,” she murmured, running her finger along the packet’s edge before pulling the bag shut again.  She offered him a candy, which he took—he rather enjoyed the spicy-sweet taste as it dissolved on his tongue—and then helped herself to one, talking as she slowly chewed.  “I’ve been having trouble keeping a cap on my abilities.  For a long time now, thoroughly draining myself was enough.  Healing someone until I was ready to drop with the effort would… keep my mana levels low.”

“Yes, you have told me as much.”

Hawke’s brow creased with annoyance.  “I’ve been recovering more quickly.”

Fenris arched an eyebrow at her.  “Forgive me, that does not seem the sort of thing a mage would… complain about.”

“Mages who don’t care about staying well-hidden, maybe,” came her pert retort.  “I’m not one of those.  Anyway, I’d been tossing around an idea during the last leg of my travels, and I finally got the chance to lay hands on the ingredients.”

“And that idea involves magebane.”

“A tincture of it,” she explained.  “To keep me  undetectable.”

“Undetectable, perhaps,” he murmured, “but… defenseless as well.”

Her own eyebrow shot upwards.  “That’s hardly an argument I’d have expected you to make.”

“But true all the same.”  She gave an exasperated huff and Fenris shook his head.  “Do not misunderstand me.  Your intent to control your powers is… commendable.  And as long as you have other means of defending yourself…”

“Hmph.  I happen to be more than a fair shot with a revolver, I’ll have you know.”

He shrugged and said, “Then I cannot see any problem with this idea of yours.”

Exasperation melted away into surprise, as she looked at him, and then a tiny smile kicked up at the corner of her mouth.  “You… don’t think I’m an idiot?”

“You are… trying to keep yourself safe,” he reasoned.  “Provided you _are_ _careful_ with this tincture…”

“Maker,” she sighed, tipping her head back and addressing the darkening skies, the wind ruffling her hair across her forehead. “It’s _so nice_ not to have someone look at me like I’m somehow deficient for wanting to try this.”

“Your other companions?” he asked.  When Hawke nodded, Fenris felt a tiny pull of concern—the dwarf and the woman clearly knew Hawke better than he.  What else did they know, if they were concerned with Hawke’s intent in this case?

“Isabela swears I’m making a mistake.  And she does know her poisons, I’ll give her that.  But I’m _so sure_ about this.  And I will be careful.”  She sighed.  “It’s all… rather complicated, I’m afraid.”

“It is not so very complicated,” he replied.  “The choice to do what you feel is best for someone else…seldom reaps pleasant benefits.”  He paused.  “Though I am curious.  You remain away from home because you are concerned with implicating your mother should you be… discovered.  And yet you have a mage in your employ.”

“Correction, we have a Dalish in our employ.  Merrill… is a unique case—nobody looks twice at her.  After Bethany— after that, when I had to leave again, I went into town to see about finding some extra help.  Merrill had left her clan, and had been wandering, trying to find work, but kept getting doors slammed in her face.  She needed work, and we needed someone who _could_ work.  She said she was good with animals, which was exactly what I was looking for anyway, so I gave her a chance.  And thank the Maker I did, because Mama positively adores that girl.”

 Fenris turned that over in his mind for a moment and something in his face made Hawke chuckle.

“You’ve met her, so you’ve already figured out she’s a little scatterbrained.  But she’s got a good heart.  And she’s a dream with the animals.  My mother just loves to dote on her.”

The blue-grey blanket above rolled closer and spread out, slowly eating up the sky as the smaller, puffy white clouds joined the mass.  Hawke let out a resigned sigh as the first drops splashed down, chilly wet pinpricks, then pushed herself to her feet and offered Fenris her hand; he clasped it and she tugged him upright.  “I think that’s our cue, don’t you?”

Fenris cast a glance behind them, noting the distance back to the farmhouse and the pastures where the horses still grazed or played or lay in the grass.  “Will they need to be brought in?”

Hawke shook her head.  “Not unless the winds get too unbearable, or if there’s lightning.  Otherwise, we’ll bring them in after dinner. Most of them love being out in the rain.”  A fond grin tugged at her lips as she said, “Falcon usually makes a muddy mess of himself.”

“He is… of a unique temperament,” Fenris observed as they walked back down the hill, towards the house.

“That’s probably the most polite way I’ve heard it phrased.”

The rain picked up quickly, and was falling in a steady, soaking sheet long before they reached the house.  Hawke let out a distressed yelp and grabbed Fenris’ wrist, tugging him as she hefted her skirts with her other hand and began running for the porch.  His initial urge was to pull away from her grasp—the magic in her made his lyrium brands jump and spark beneath his skin, even when she _wasn’t_ actively healing him—but the warmth and strength in her slender fingers pushed through the uncomfortable jolt and he increased his own pace to match hers.

“Does this not count as overtaxing myself?” he asked above the rush of rain.

“It might,” she called back, then swore as she plunged through a puddle.  “Good thing you know a healer!”

They pounded up the porch steps, and once sheltered from the rain, Hawke released her grip, first checking in her purse to make sure the apothecary’s packet was still dry before plucking at the damp dress and pushing her streaming hair away from her face, making annoyed noises.  Fenris looked down at his own wet clothing in consternation.  

“If you need to, you can borrow one of my brother’s shirts,” Hawke said, catching his look.  “I’m sure we’ve still got some of his things packed away.”

When Fenris glanced up from himself to reply, he turned his gaze sharply away again.  The pale, thin material of Hawke’s gown was soaked through, the bodice hiding very little as it clung.  “That would be very helpful,” he said stiffly, staring nowhere but straight ahead of him into the grey downpour.

“Fenris—?”

But whatever question Hawke might have asked was cut off as the door swung open and both Mrs. Hawke and Merrill hurried out, the former with towels in her arms.  “Maker’s breath, you two!  You’re soaked straight through!”  She bustled forward, handing them both towels; Fenris ran his over his head, and by the time he pulled it away, he was gratified to find Hawke had wrapped hers about her shoulders.

“My thanks,” he said, inclining his head.

“Thank you, Mama,” Hawke added, with a rueful smile.  “That one came on quick.”

“Oh, not as quick as all that,” Merrill chirped.  “I thought those clouds would take _forever_ to get here.  We had time to shut up the barn and all the outbuildings.  You’d have had to be paying no attention at _all_ to miss—”

“Merrill,” Hawke broke in, and Fenris noted there was a flush growing at her cheeks.

“Yes?”

“Shush, please.”

#

Amelle kept an eye on the storm outside; though the rain hadn’t ceased, and in fact seemed to fall _harder,_ the winds were tolerable and so far there’d been thunder, but no lightning yet, and that was a mercy.  Still, the horses _would_ have to come in for the night.  It was probably too much to hope for that the rain would move on by then.  It’d be a greater miracle if they weren’t socked in for a week of damp, soggy weather.

Indoors, however, everything was bright and warm, and the bone-deep chill of her sodden dress turned into a distant memory as they sat down to a thick, hearty stew, riddled with beef and carrots and potatoes, heady with the scent of thyme and rosemary.  Mama’s biscuits were impossibly soft and buttery—every bite dissolved on her tongue, and it was a true feat not to gorge herself.  It was only the promise of pie that kept her from stuffing herself silly on biscuits, and even then just barely.

Fenris, though he’d slid into customary silence after they’d come in from the storm, also seemed to enjoy dinner, giving Mama solemn compliments on every part of the meal.  Whether it had been their conversation on the hilltop or her mother’s warm smile at Fenris’ words, Amelle was reminded of happier times, when the house had been full to bursting with laughter, warmth and magic.  Daddy had been cautious, certainly, but never _afraid_ of his powers, and he’d instilled that respect for power in both Amelle and Bethany.  It hadn’t been until Amelle saw her mother lose Daddy, then Bethany, and finally Carver that she felt caution edging into fear. Not fear of her powers, no, but fear she might be found out.  She couldn’t— _wouldn’t_ —do that to her mother, who’d already lost so much.

When Mama set down the strawberry pie, Amelle’s mouth watered.  The crust was perfectly domed and golden, granules of sugar giving the crust a nubby crystalized texture.  The strawberries inside were vibrantly red, and as she took the small plate bearing her piece, Amelle had to remind herself that they had company and company meant she probably ought to use a _fork._

She was only halfway through her second piece, pushing the tines of her fork through the gloriously flaky crust and into a plump piece of strawberry, when her mother said something that made Amelle’s hand go still, her fork lodged in her dessert.

“I was hoping we could talk, darling, about Carver.”

Amelle blinked at her plate, hating the way tension began crawling up her spine, tightening her shoulders.  She swallowed once—it was just _wrong_ how dry her mouth had become—and looked up, forcing her voice to lightness.  “What about him?”

And _why_ in the name of Andraste’s saggy britches was Mama bringing Carver up _now?_

“Well,” Mama said, setting down her own fork and smoothing her hands across the plain tablecloth, “something… occurred to me, these last few weeks you were gone.”

“Oh?”  She swallowed again, glancing quickly at Fenris and Merrill from the corner of her eye.  Fenris appeared puzzled, but Merrill looked positively shamefaced.  _Oh, dear._   “And what’s that?”  

Mama sent Amelle a somewhat pointed look.  “It’s been five years.”

“It has.”

“And,” she went on, “it seems to me that since you already travel so much—”

Amelle’s heart began pounding harder.

“—You might consider expanding, as it were.  To Kirkwall.”

“To Kirkwall,” she echoed weakly.  _Why, Mama?  Why are we talking about this now? Why here?  Why now?_

Mama’s fingers plucked at the tablecloth, then smoothed out the wrinkles, the only indication she was at all nervous about the topic of conversation.  “I want you to talk to Carver, Amelle,” she said quietly.  “You’ve both gone long enough without speaking.”

“Mama—”

“I know it was horrid when he left, and I know what I’m asking you to do is difficult.”

Amelle’s stomach, so full of pie, lurched uncomfortably.  She swallowed again, but said nothing.

“I’m not getting any younger—”

_“Mama—”_

“And he’s the only family you’ll have left after I’m gone,” she said, firmly, lifting her chin and fixing Amelle with an unyielding blue gaze.  “Five years is long enough—far too long for you both to go without any sort of reconciliation between you.  Please, just consider—”

The chair scraped loudly across the floor as Amelle stood.  

“Amelle?”

“Sorry.  Sorry, I—I need to… I need to bring the horses in,” she stammered, taking a step away from the table, another step out of the kitchen and towards the door.  “I’ll be right back,” she called out over her shoulder before disappearing out the front door, hearing the screen slam in the wet darkness as she made a beeline for the barn.  

Everything was swathed in dark grey, the rain making the world even darker and wetter than the twilight Amelle knew it to be.  She was soaked to the bone— _again_ —by the time she laid hands on the barn door, yanking hard on it until it pulled open.  She hurried inside, greeted a chorus of bleating goats and sheep dismayed by the storm, and called forth mana enough that a globe of blue light swirled to life in her palm, quickly engulfing her hand.  Surrounded by the eerie light, Amelle strove to calm the erratic tattoo of her thundering heart; she gathered an armful of lead-ropes from hooks and spun around on her heel, only to find Fenris coming into the barn after her, a lantern held in one hand.  

“Hawke, your mother—”  He stopped short at the sight of her, and she realized, healing sessions aside, Fenris had never really _seen_ her giving a full display of magic.  Oops.  She opted not to let her flame gutter out; he knew she was a mage, he could deal with it, or he could _not_ deal with it.  At the moment, she wasn’t of a mind to care either way.

“Maker,” she breathed shakily, “please do _not_ tell me she sent you out here.”

“She did not.  She would have come herself, in fact.”  When Amelle leaned heavily against a support beam, he took a step closer.  “Are you… well?”

“No,” she admitted, looking wearily at the blue ball of light.  She flicked her wrist and let it die.  “No, I don’t think I am.”  Amelle gnawed on her lip until she the sharp taste of blood met her tongue.  Then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, sending a tiny flash of healing mana to her lip and trying to _calm down_.  “This part’s probably obvious, but I _really_ don’t want to to talk to my brother.”

“You don’t wish to… to reconcile?” he asked carefully—carefully enough that Amelle was nearly sure Fenris didn’t know the details.  She didn’t answer, mostly because she didn’t know _how_ to answer, and it was at that point Fenris took several steps closer, peering at her face with something uncomfortably like recognition.  “No,” he said quietly.  “It is nothing to do with your wants.”  Another pause, and Amelle truly didn’t want to hear what he had to say.  “You are afraid.”

Damn it, why did he have to be _right?_

“It is true, is it not?”

Amelle licked her lips, searching for something, some explanation, some _defense._   “Fenris…”  But what could she say?  What could she tell him?  She had no obligation to tell him _anything,_ and yet… he’d come out here, through the rain, looking for her.  Maybe that counted for something.

He narrowed his eyes at her.  “Is it because he is a templar?”

“No,” came her tired reply.  “Well.  Not… not completely.”

It was a strange moment then, in the seconds that followed her words.  He could have asked.  She _expected_ him to ask her to elaborate, even as she braced herself against a barrage of questions… that did not come.

“It is your own affair,” he said quietly.  “Come.  I will assist you in collecting the—”

“He hates me,” she blurted, her throat closing up on the last word.  She swallowed hard against the lump, but it wouldn’t budge.  She took a deep breath and tried again.  “My brother hates me.”

Fenris said nothing right away.  Then, “Your mother does not seem to believe that.”

“Because she doesn’t know.”  Her back still pressed against the beam, Amelle sunk to the ground, but Fenris didn’t move, not an inch.  He simply held the lantern and watched her, waiting.  

After an eternity of indecision, Amelle took the end of one lead rope in her fingers, playing with the frayed knot.  “He blames me for Bethany’s death.”  She sucked in a breath and held it.  “And I’m not sure I disagree with him on that score.”

Never coming any closer, Fenris sunk to one knee and set the lantern down.  “You told me you were not home when your sister…”

“Was thrown from a horse,” she finished, bleakly.  “Bethany—we… animals don’t… always like us. Mages. Or… well, prey animals, I think.  I think it’s instinct in… in prey or herd animals not to… to _trust_ the… whatever it is they sense in us.”

“You ride a horse.”

“Falcon’s known me since he was born.  Daddy knew it was the only way he’d accept me.  Bethany had a horse too—Annie, the mare.  Falcon’s sister.  But Annie was colicky, and Carver was seeing to her.  So Bethany thought… thought she’d just ride another of the horses.”  She breathed in, but the sound was too much like a sob, and it was at that point Amelle realized her eyes were burning and her cheeks were wet with tears.  “Falcon and Annie’s brother.  Marius.  The gelding up at the Perkins’ farm.”

“The biter.”

Amelle gave a miserable nod.  “Biting wasn’t his only bad habit.”  Scrubbing a hand across one cheek and then the other, she looked up at Fenris.  “She saddled him up and took him out.  The way I hear it, Marius was prancing and pawing at the ground from the start.  Bethy figured it was nerves.  She figured if she could ride Annie, and I could ride Falcon, and they were so alike in temperament… then she could ride Marius.”

“But it was not so.”

“He threw her.  I know the fall broke her back.  That’s… that’s all I know for sure.  I… I was told she couldn’t feel her legs.  But there was something else wrong, something worse.  She—  I was on my way home, but… there was a storm.  Delayed me.”  Letting the lead ropes slide free, Amelle wrapped her arms around herself.  “I didn’t know.  I’d have hurried if I’d only known, but—”

“Was there any way you _could_ have known?” he asked, an edge to his voice.  

Amelle only shook her head, tears coming too hard and fast now for her to hope they might stop anytime soon.  “But if I’d got home a day earlier,” she insisted around a choking sob, “if I’d pushed through the rain, I could’ve _fixed_ it.  I could’ve _healed_ her.  Bethany wasn’t a healer.  She couldn’t— If I’d come home _on time,_ I’d’ve been able to yank her backside away from that horse before the fool thought had even taken shape in her head.  But I _didn’t_.  Instead, I came home to a dead sister, a broken mother, and a furious brother.  They… they had a healer come down from Lothering, but… there wasn’t—he couldn’t fix what was wrong.  They gave her laudanum to help with the pain, but _that’s it._ ”

She was cold.  She was wet and cold, and gripped with a tremble that felt as if it started at her very core.  Fenris remained silent.  She wondered what he was thinking, how severely he was judging her.

“Carver left the day after the funeral,” she managed, rubbing furiously at her face with one sleeve.  “But he told me.  Before he left, he told me it was my fault.  My fault for not being there in the first place.  I could’ve stayed around, he said.  I _should’ve_ stayed around.  Not traipsed around the Maker-forsaken country…”

“Hawke.”

“The worst part is, _he was right._ ”

“No,” Fenris said, his voice low, and even, and so very steady that it made Amelle blink.

“But—”

 _“No,”_ he said again.  “We are none of us—even mages—gifted with second sight.  Had you known your sister was in danger, would you have gone to her bedside?”

She stared up at him, dumbfounded.  “Of course.”

“Had you remained at the farm, as your brother claims you ought to have done, would your family have found itself in financial peril?”

After several long seconds, Amelle nodded.  Reluctantly.  “Yes.”

“Accidents are beyond our reach, Hawke.  There are occurrences in this world that can be changed, and it can be… difficult to separate those instances from true accidents.  Your brother was wrong.  Your sister’s death was… not your fault.”

“It… _feels_ as if it were my fault,” she admitted, feeling wretched about it.

“Because you have allowed yourself to believe your brother’s words.  But have you ever allowed yourself to consider for a moment that he may have been wrong?”

“…No.”

“It is a thought worth considering.”  He stood, then, offering her his hand.  Amelle took it and felt herself pulled easily to her feet.  “But first, we must bring in the horses.  The rest will keep until daylight.”

Perhaps he was right, she thought as they abandoned the barn for the soaking night, boots squelching in the mud with every step towards the pasture.  _Perhaps_ it was a dilemma that would look differently in the morning.

_Perhaps._

But even as Amelle and Fenris brought in the horses, even as she changed into dry clothes and slid beneath warm blankets, lulled to sleep by the rain hitting the roof, she remembered the ice in Carver’s eyes the day he’d left.


	7. Chapter 7

The rain from the previous day lasted all through the night, tapering off by morning, leaving the world smelling clean.  A few puffy clouds remained, dotting the sky; there were enough of them to leave open the possibility of more rain later in the day, but for now cool, damp breezes rustled the trees and grass, fluttering the curtains in the windows, and sending the scent of sweet hay throughout the barn.  

Amelle had used the morning’s chores as an excuse not to speak to her mother about her… _request_ (which was the politest way of putting it), carefully avoiding the subject when she finally came in for breakfast (thank the Maker for Fenris, since Mama was particularly disinclined to pursue the topic any further while he was around), and continued avoiding it by vanishing up to her little worktable in the hayloft soon thereafter.  It wasn’t so much that she didn’t _want_ to talk about it, but that she didn’t know what to _say._   And so she sat, slowly and painstakingly crafting potions, one after another after another.  From somewhere outside there came the rhythmic _thwack, thwack, thwack_ of either Tomas or Kellen, Tomas’ younger brother who was another of the farmhands, chopping wood, reminding Amelle she still had to go back into town and see about that new plow.  

Pushing the errand out of her mind, she measured out dried roots and leaves on her little brass scales, pulverizing them with her mortar and pestle, then steeping and stoppering restoratives and tinctures and ointments, not because she particularly needed to get to work on bolstering her wares just yet, but because the work soothed her and cleared her mind, and the Maker knew she needed a clear head right now.

Carver.  Mama wanted her to reconcile with _Carver._

Her gut instinct—which had yet to fail her in her twenty-six years—told her it was a bad idea for many reasons, not the least of which was the part where her brother was a _templar_ now.  And not just _any_ templar—one of Meredith Stannard’s men.  Meredith “I always get my mage” Stannard.  Meredith “the only good apostate is a dead apostate” Stannard.  

It was excellent incentive to perfect the tincture of magebane, she supposed.  It wouldn’t do to traipse all the way to Kirkwall only to find herself jailed for her trouble.

Assuming, of course, she even _went._ She still wasn’t sure about that.

Amelle blew away a sweaty lock of hair sticking stubbornly to her forehead, then carefully placed long strands of dried spindleweed on the scale, taking care _not_ to blow the whole pile of thready pieces all across the workbench.  She added another several strands until the scales evened.  If she didn’t go, it’d mean Mama’s disappointment, and that wasn’t such a _terrible_ burden to bear, since she was fairly certain even Mama didn’t understand what she was asking of Amelle.  The best—the _very_ best case scenario involved Carver and Amelle in a teary, joyful reunion, the likelihood of which was… slim, at best.  

The worst case scenario, however… Amelle shuddered against the whisper of a chill ghosting down her spine, so very much colder than the damp breeze.  She didn’t want to think about the worst thing that could possibly happen.  There were worse things than cells and chains.  Worse things than never seeing the farm again, never seeing her mother again.  There were worse things than death, even.

As she moved methodically through each step of her rejuvenation potion recipe, Amelle considered her options.  She didn’t like them.  She could _go,_ obviously taking every single precaution she possibly _could_ , and fulfilling the letter of Mama’s request, if not the spirit, approaching the task like any unpleasant chore to be done.  Or she could _not_ go—the more appealing option, naturally—and… and what?

 _Disappoint her,_ she thought miserably.  _Do you really think you can expect to stay here if you don’t_ try _to talk to him, at the very least?  Oh, it’s all very well that you want to make this a more permanent home, but will you be permitted to if you don’t give her this?_

It wasn’t as if Amelle thought for a moment Mama wouldn’t welcome her home again, but things would definitely be… strained.  The more practical side of her reasoned that a strained relationship with her mother was worth it if meant avoiding Tranquility.

The rejuvenation potion finished, she set aside the bottle and leaned back on her little stool, arching her spine until it cracked, then rolling her shoulders until they did the same.  The packet of magebane ingredients lay innocuously on the workbench, weighted down by a heavy bottle of laudanum.  Everything she needed, just waiting for her to go ahead and put them all together.  Then she’d need to test the dosage, which Amelle looked forward to roughly as much as she looked forward to playing Isabela one on one in Wicked Grace.  

Reaching out slowly, Amelle brushed the tips of her fingers against the edge of the packet; freeing it from underneath the potion bottle, she pulled it closer.  She knew the recipe already, and had for a while now. And yet, Amelle’s heart still thundered away in her chest as she pulled each ingredient out, setting small square packets of brown paper flat on her work surface.  She breathed, in and out. Three deep, slow breaths.

Her hands were steady.  

Amelle worked carefully, measuring each component twice before dropping it in a deep glass tube with the rest.  Magebane wasn’t a difficult recipe to master; no, as with so many potions, the difficulty came with dosage.  She blended the mixture with a slender rod, watching as it went from a murky brown to a dull blood-red.  Cradling the glass in her hands, Amelle added heat until the liquid within turned first a hazy lavender, then a vibrant, jewel-toned purple.  Cooling the potion too quickly would cause the glass to shatter, as previous experience had taught her more than once, so it was with careful precision that she shifted the mana in her veins, gradually easing back heat as she pushed forward cooler energy.  As the magebane cooled, it went cloudy before turning sharply clear.

Setting the tube down on her workbench, Amelle examined her work.  A poison like this one really had no right being so _pretty._ Shafts of sunlight caught the liquid as she poured it into a bottle and then stoppered it, casting a long stream of pink light down the table’s scarred and pitted surface.

Several small cobalt blue bottles—enough for several trials of differing strength—sat innocuously among a collection of completed potions, empty bottles, and stray corks. Amelle plucked one up and twisted its stopper free.  The laudanum’s bitter odor wafted up from both cork and bottle, and though she didn’t think it terribly likely, Amelle wondered if it was worth hoping the magebane stood a chance of improving the laudanum’s taste.  Or maybe the laudanum would improve the magebane.  Could work either way, really.  The most likely outcome was that the whole affair would taste singularly _awful,_ so there was _that_ to look forward to.  

Measuring the magebane into tinctures of varying potency was meticulous work, but once the liquids were combined (producing a smell worse than magebane _or_ laudanum, something Amelle wouldn’t have thought possible), the bottles marked accordingly and the remaining magebane hidden away high on a shelf for safekeeping, Amelle stared down at her handiwork.  There was no putting it off any longer—she’d have to test it sooner or later.  At the moment, _later_ was the more appealing option; after the trip to Lothering for the plow, perhaps.  She pushed away from the little workspace, her stool scraping loudly across the hayloft floor, and then climbed nimbly down the ladder.  She’d let Merrill, Tomas, and Kellen know where she was headed and maybe see if Fenris still needed to take a trip into Lothering.  His injuries seemed to be healing well enough, definitely faster than she’d anticipated. He still wanted to be useful and… repay her, she supposed, so Amelle had instructed Merrill show Fenris how to mix the bran mash for the horses along with a few other light-duty chores that wouldn’t be too overtaxing.  So long as they took it slow, she saw no harm in him accompanying her to Lothering—it was just a little longer than the turn they had taken around the farm the other day. 

It had been a nice turn around the farm, though.  Until the rain. 

She still wasn’t quite sure what to make of Fenris; he’d needed her help, she’d helped him and now he was doing a fine job with the healing process, which meant he’d be heading his own way soon.  It’d made for an interesting few days, though.  Maybe not always the _good_ type of interesting, especially at the beginning there, but… interesting all the same.  What he’d said to Amelle in the barn came back to her, the way his low voice mixed too well with the shadows and the rush of rain.  Bethany’s death, not her fault.  She wasn’t sure she believed it, but it was nice to think somebody thought it was possible.

Merrill was hip deep in mucking out the stalls, singing an old Dalish tune under her breath when Amelle rounded a corner and found her.

“Anything you need from town?” she asked, wincing apologetically when Merrill jumped and gave a little yelp, swinging around, still holding the pitchfork, which resulted in Amelle having no choice but to dart out of the way or get skewered.

“By the Dread Wolf! You shouldn’t sneak up on a person like that!” she cried, digging the tines down into the hay, resuming her mucking with vigor.  “I could’ve poked you full of holes!”

“Healer,” Amelle riposted, wiggling her fingers, but Merrill just shook her head, slender braids swinging.  “I’m off to town again shortly.  Figured I’d see about a plow.  Is there anything else we need?”

“Nothing I can think of,” Merrill answered, turning the pitchfork handle slowly in her hand. “But you’ll want to tell Tomas he can stop fussing with the old handle.  He’ll be glad to hear that.”

The barn was angled such that the little area behind the building was swathed in shade for most of the morning and was a popular spot for certain jobs, like repairing the plow, chopping wood, or mixing up bran mash.  That was already the case this morning—Merrill said she saw Tomas working on the plow handle while Kellan chopped wood, and Amelle followed the sounds of wood being chopped, calling out to Tomas as she came through to the back of the barn.

“Good news, Tomas, I’m heading to town to see about a new—”

But when Amelle came through the barn door, it wasn’t Kellen _or_ Tomas she found chopping wood.  The plow was nearby, but abandoned, and the person methodically splitting log after log after log had graceful white lines twisting and twining up the center of his back like a vine, splitting at the nape of his neck and traveling across his shoulders and onward down his arms, lean cords of muscle along his back and arms that flexed with every swing of the axe.  No, not Kellen and not Tomas, but Fenris.  Definitely, absolutely, and undeniably Fenris.  Sweat plastered his pale hair to his head and darkened the waistband of his trousers, but his shirt was safe and dry, hung neatly on the handle of the ruined plow.

For a moment Amelle couldn’t speak, literally could not make any words of any language form in her brain or come out her mouth.  For that moment, Amelle simply watched in open admiration at the way the muscles played beneath his skin.

But when, after far too long, the words finally _did_ come, what left her lips wasn’t precisely what she’d expected to say.  Or, more precisely, _shout._

“ _What_ in the Maker’s name are you—are you _trying_ to cripple yourself?” Amelle yelled, stomping around to face Fenris the very moment the axe landed solidly against the wedge, splitting the log in two as the blade lodged itself in the chopping block.  “Is _that_ what you’re trying to do?  Did you think _baking a pie_ was an appropriate prelude to cutting _giant hunks of wood into kindling?_ Are you _demented?_ ”

Her outburst hadn’t surprised him.  On the contrary, Fenris simply worked the axe free again and picked up another log to split, which did exactly nothing to soothe her burst of anger.  “I told you I wished to be useful during my stay.”

“Useful’s fine,” she snapped.  “I wholly support being useful.  But _this_ —” Amelle swung her arm, gesturing grandly, “this is _asinine_.  Are you trying to reinjure yourself?  Is that what you _want?_ ”

“I am aware of my own limits,” he ground out through his teeth. “I am not a fool.”

“Chopping wood less than a week out from being shot and crushed by your horse in an ambush and you’re trying to convince me you’re not a fool?”  Amelle reached out and poked one unerring fingertip against the muscle along his arm; there was no scar there, but it was without a doubt the spot he’d been shot.  When Fenris hissed in a sudden, sharp breath through his teeth, Amelle experienced a fleeting stab of guilt, quickly drowned out by annoyance.  “Maker’s _balls_ , Fenris, _honestly._ ”

Rubbing the abused muscle gingerly, he stepped around the chopping block to face her.  “This is work I know how to do. I refuse to sit idle just because—”

“Did we not have the _what the healer says goes_ conversation we had? Because I am _nearly_ certain we had that conversation.”

His brows lowered into a stubborn line that slashed across his forehead.  “We did,” he retorted.  “I feel much recovered.”

Amelle opened her mouth, then shut it.  Then she wondered if maybe his brain had been somehow damaged in the attack.  Because that would’ve explained so much.  With a scowl, she crossed her arms over her chest.  “Fine.  But reinjure it, and you’re on your own.”

That line across his forehead lowered further as Fenris’ scowl deepened. “Was there some purpose to this visit, Hawke?”

It wasn’t the most artless subject change, but Amelle took his point clearly enough. “I thought I was going to find Tomas back here,” she answered shortly.  “But I’m planning to take a walk into Lothering in a bit. You’d mentioned wanting to make a trip yourself, so I figured I’d let you know I’d be going that way.”

He nodded once, and then, rubbing his palms on his trousers, picked up the shirt hanging from the plow.  “Yes,” he answered, adding, “I have need to replace some of my belongings that were damaged in the slaver attack.”

 _Like the sense the Maker saw fit to give you?_ she thought acerbically, but what Amelle _said_ was, “All right.  I’ll make sure to find you before I go.”

#

Evidently what Hawke needed to accomplish before leaving for Lothering was to change out of the simple cotton shirt and trousers she’d been wearing and into a dress not terribly unlike the one she’d worn the previous day, though the material was somewhat less diaphanous, he noted, the color of a robin’s egg and trimmed with pale lace and dark blue buttons.  Nothing so grand as what he’d seen ladies wearing in the Imperium or elsewhere across Thedas, but Hawke’s bearing complemented the garment as much as the garment complemented Hawke, something he noticed in particular as his eye fell to the pleasing curve of her waist.

Or it would have been pleasing had she not still been so irritated with him.  Hawke’s displeasure rolled off in waves, as if the source of her scowl was further beneath the skin’s surface than anyone could hope to imagine.  Perhaps it made a sort of sense, given her moments of contentedness—the brief ones he’d been witness to—seemed to likewise originate deep within her.  The same could also be said of her sadness.  But now her posture was rigid stiff, and every step she took was one determined to propel her away from the farm as quickly as possible.

It didn’t seem likely she was _only_ irritated with his decision to assist with chores more difficult than mixing horse feed.  He knew himself and knew his limits, and would not have attempted such a task if he’d thought it would result in lasting damage.  He could scarce afford foolish risks such as that, and yet Hawke’s anger, sparking hotly in her eyes and in the furious flush that crept up her neck and warmed her cheeks, was just enough to make him begin to question his decision.  Indeed, he was loath to admit it out loud, but his arm still ached where she’d poked him, and her precision in locating _just_ the right spot where the bullet had pierced his flesh was nothing less than surprising.

The silence between them ought to have been a welcome one; Fenris was accustomed to his own company and quite enjoyed the peace of solitude, but Hawke’s own silence was tense; it crept pricklingly along his nerves, scraping up restlessness in its wake.  Perhaps this disquietude was something to do with the incident that had unfolded the night before.  That too was possible.  Her… he supposed it was a confession, though in Fenris’ opinion that there was nothing to confess, had revealed more to him in minutes than he’d learned in the days he’d spent at the farm so far.  It certainly explained her deep resistance to her mother’s suggestion, beyond, even, the obvious difficulty found in her brother’s position with the templars.

Finally he could take no more of her rigid posture and furiously determined strides.

“If you have something to say, Hawke, I would ask that you say it.”

She slowed her steps long enough to look at him, one eyebrow arching toward your hairline.  “Something to say, maybe, on the topic of your blatant disregard for a healer’s orders?”

“I know myself _and_ my limits,” he countered. “I would ask you not insult my intelligence.”

Hawke’s expression slid from annoyance to something… wry and almost—incongruously enough— _amused._ “Everyone says that, you know. Everyone. People always insist they know their own limits, always insist they know themselves best.  And nine times out of ten, when someone utters those exact words, it’s either right before or right after they’ve done something boneheaded.” She sent him a sidelong glance in the silence that followed, then added, “Healers don’t like seeing people hurt. We especially don’t like seeing the people we’ve healed hurt themselves.”

“And I dislike feeling as if I am taking advantage of hospitality.”

“You said as much.”  They went a few steps further before she said, “So what are we supposed to do about it?”

“…Do?”

“I can hardly keep you from doing what you set your mind to doing. The most I can do, in fact, is refuse to heal any new damage you do to yourself. Which, I’m afraid you’ll find, is a difficult promise for any healer to make.”  Hawke then clasped her hands in front of her, and… _something_ about her gait changed.  No longer did she walk as if she were trying to escape the farm, and Fenris wondered anew whether she was truly irritated _with him._

“What I propose,” she continued, “is… a compromise.”

“What sort of compromise?”

“You want to be useful on the farm.”

“I do.”

“All right,” Hawke said, nodding once.  “Then help _me._ ”

Fenris didn’t understand her meaning and said so, at which point Hawke shrugged.  “Stay here and recover— _allow_ yourself to recover, _fully_ —and in return, you can repay me helping me with…” She sent him another glance from the corner of her eye.  “I told you I was working on a magebane tincture.”

“You did,” he replied.  “But I know nothing of potion-crafting—”

“I need to test it.” Her throat moved as she swallowed. “But at the end of the day, magebane is a poison, and it’s idiotic of me to pretend otherwise. If something goes wrong, I need someone there who’ll have his wits about him.”

“You anticipate… something going wrong?”

Hawke shrugged again. “When you’re dealing with potions and poisons, there’s always room for something to go badly. This is… counter to my usual skill set—I’m not used to blending things designed to _hurt_.  And I’m sure as the Void not used to _taking_ them.  But,” she sighed, tipping her head back to look at the sky, “if I’m actually _going_ to go to Kirkwall to find Carver, I’d better have a damned fine potion on my side if I don’t want to wind up a permanent guest of the Kirkwall Circle of Magi.”

“You… have decided to go, then.”

“Depends on if I can perfect the magebane tincture,” she replied. “Sapping my mana is good. Knocking me senseless is… not so good.”

“Which is where you want me to come in.”

“It doesn’t sound like much,” Hawke admitted, “but having someone standing by with lyrium potion should I need it will be an immense help.”

“Why not ask another’s assistance?”

“Isabela and Varric already think it’s a bad idea, and Merrill already worries too much. Magebane isn’t a pretty poison. I don’t—I don’t want to scare her.”

“Whereas I…”

The look she shot him was far too shrewd for Fenris’ liking.  “I have a feeling you’ve seen plenty in your life that hasn’t been pretty. I doubt you scare easily.”

The request sounded too… easy, leaving Fenris with the feeling Hawke was trying to dupe him somehow, by tricking him into accepting a meaningless, empty task.

All the same, it was a compromise, and he did not expect to remain at the Hawke farm for much longer. “Very well,” he finally agreed. “If you require my aid, you will have it.”

After Fenris agreed to assist Hawke with her potion testing, they continued on to Lothering in a far more companionable silence than they’d started out with.  Lush green fields and farms rolled across the hilly landscape on either side of the main road, until they came upon Lothering proper.  The town, though small, was pleasanter than the overgrown mining camps scattered across the countryside, but that was the difference between towns built around mines and ones built around farms.  The people of Lothering didn’t possess the same desperate, pinched, _ill_ look of the people who lived around the lyrium mines. Though Fenris would not have placed the Hawke he’d first met—the one dressed in red who commanded the attention of a crowd—in such a town, _this_ one—the Hawke who tended horses and ran through rainstorms and shared her sorrows with a near-stranger in dim lanternlight—seemed entirely in place here.

“That was the schoolhouse we just passed,” she said as they walked, “and along Main Street here we’ve got the general store and the feed store and Miss Allison’s dress shop—doubt you’ll need to stop in there—and… well, it’s nothing fancy, but old Hiram’s been Lothering’s tailor for as long as I can remember, so if it’s clothes you’re needing…”

He shot her a curious look, but she only shrugged. “Doesn’t take second sight to notice how light you pack _and_ how put out you were after our soaking yesterday.”

“You are… observant,” he murmured, recalling too clearly Hawke’s scrutiny the day she’d sold him the frostrock ointment. Observant, indeed.

“I have to be, I think. It comes with the territory. Doesn’t matter if I’m healing someone or selling them something, I need to be able to see what it is they need.”

“You are not incorrect, as it happens.”

Hawke nodded.  “You should probably go on ahead, then. I’ve got to see about that plow, and hunt down Varric and Isabela and let them know our plans may possibly… change, somewhat.”

“Do you think they will accompany you?”

“I think,” Hawke drawled dryly, “Isabela wouldn’t let me leave her behind if she thought I was heading anywhere remotely _interesting.”_

#

“Well, _obviously_ you’re taking us, kitten.  When do we leave?”

Amelle pinched the bridge of her nose.  “Isabela, I’m not so sure—”

“You’re not leaving us behind. Either of us.”

“I don’t _intend_ to.  But you’ve made my intent rather easier said than done.”

“Oh, this?” Isabela flicked a finger at one of the bars separating her from Amelle.  It clanged softly.  “This is _nothing._   It’s just a minor inconvenience.  A formality. A—”

“Inconvenient formality my left foot,” drawled Aveline from behind her.  Amelle glanced over her shoulder—Aveline was an old friend, sure enough, but even the oldest friends had lines that weren’t meant to be crossed, so Amelle didn’t cross them. Isabela, on the other hand, wasn’t Amelle and, as Aveline was always quick to point out, Isabela wasn’t Aveline’s friend, either.  Right now, in fact, she looked annoyed enough to spit, at which point Amelle wondered if Isabela had been needling the sheriff all morning.  “Barlin’s told and told and _told_ you knives aren’t welcome at Dane’s Refuge.”

“Barlin’s just cranky I keep winning,” Isabela tossed back airily.

“Cranky he can’t catch you with cards up your sleeve, you mean,” Aveline riposted, but Isabela just rolled her eyes.

“Everyone cheats at Wicked Grace, big girl—it’s practically the object of the game. Anyone who says otherwise is just playing a different kind of game.”

Turning her back on Isabela, Amelle crossed the tiny room and planted her hands on Aveline’s desk, leaning forward.  “You’re _really_ keeping her?” she asked. “Really, _really_ keeping her?”

“Twenty-four hours in a cell and a fine.  You know the rules, Hawke.”

Amelle did know the rules, as well as she knew Aveline wasn’t about to bend them for her.  She glanced back at Isabela, who’d now draped herself along the narrow bunk, booted feet propped up against the wall. “Varric paid the fine already, sweet thing. Now it’s just a matter of waiting.”  She smiled and shot Amelle a wink. “Unless you feel like breaking me out.”

Amelle could only roll her eyes.  “I am _fairly certain_ this isn’t the sort of conversation you’re meant to have in front of the sheriff, Isabela.”

“Oh, you’re no fun at all,” Isabela replied, thumping one booted heel against the wall, watching Aveline out of the corner of her eye, as if _waiting_ for the other woman to react.

Amelle turned back to her friend.  As it had happened, Amelle had stopped in at the sheriff’s office in hopes of finding Aveline. Catching Isabela there was just a… a bonus, in a demented sort of way.

“So?  What do you say?”

Aveline shook her head and let out a long breath. “You’re really going to Kirkwall? _Really?_ ”

“Unless I chicken out at the last minute? Yes.”

“Family’s family, I know that well as anyone, but even so, I’m surprised Leandra wants you to take that kind of risk.”

“It’s only risky if I don’t prepare for it.”

Aveline’s face creased into a pained grimace. “Maker, don’t tell me about your preparations.”

“They’re all perfectly legal!”

“And perfectly asinine too, if my guess is right.”

“This may surprise you, Aveline,” chirped Isabela from her bunk, “but you and I happen to be in _complete agreement_ on that.”

The look Aveline then shot Amelle was too eloquent by half. “Oh,” she said, brows lifting, “that makes me feel _ever_ so much better.”

Frustration prickled under her skin as Amelle sent a glare Isabela’s way. “Isabela’s exaggerating, _like she does._ I’m not asking you to help, or come along, or to do anything remotely _questionable._   I just want you to keep an eye on Mama and the farm while I’m gone.”

“And if you don’t come back?”

“Maker’s breath, Aveline," Amelle huffed, " _I’m coming back._ ”

_Especially if I don’t come back._


	8. Chapter 8

Fenris didn’t see Hawke at their meeting place, which struck him as… odd, particularly since he’d been concerned his own errands were taking too much time—more time than he was comfortable spending, at any rate. He didn’t think she’d have left without him, but nor did it seem terribly likely she was still busy with acquiring a new plow for the farm.  He shifted the brown paper and twine-wrapped package in his arms and made his way slowly down the street, pausing briefly in front of the shop windows to glance inside. The general store yielded no sign of her, and neither did the feed store, the apothecary, or the saloon.  He went as far as the chantry before turning back, but on his return route, Fenris caught sight of something he hadn’t seen on his first trip up the street.

Amelle Hawke, coming out of the dressmaker’s shop, similarly-wrapped packages in her arms.  

“Hawke,” he called, lengthening his stride to catch up with her.  She whirled, eyes wide with surprise that turned quickly to sheepishness.

“You… weren’t waiting long, were you?” she asked, arms tightening around the parcels so the paper crinkled. “I thought—I thought I’d have enough time…”

“No,” he answered carefully. “I have what I came for.”

“And… and Hiram had what you were looking for?”

“I required nothing unusual.” Indeed, he’d replaced the lost and damaged clothes with more of the same.  “And you?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow and letting his eyes slide back to the shopfront window. “I was unaware ladies’ garment shops sold such things as field plows.”

“Tomas and Kellen are bringing around the wagon later,” was her pert reply. “I can hardly carry a plow home myself. Unless you thought perhaps that’s why I’d brought you along? To help me carry it?”

“I suspect that might constitute overtaxing myself,” was his own deadpan reply.

“ _Now_ you care about the healer’s orders. I see how it is.”

The walk home was significantly less tense than the walk into town, and Fenris found himself wondering if part of the reason for that had to do with the parcel Hawke carried.  She asked his impressions of Lothering and he gave them (small but not unpleasantly so); the conversation moved to horses (though she steadfastly refused to answer his inquiry regarding Falcon’s “full name”), and, finally, travel.

“I… suppose I ought to be thankful you were around for Mama’s little… request,” she said after a lengthy pause.

Fenris glanced over at her, but Hawke’s gaze never strayed from the road before them.  “Why is that?” he asked.

“I don’t have to explain _why_ I need to go to Kirkwall. Only that I _do._ ”

“You have decided, then.”

“Yes,” Hawke replied with a nod. Then her expression turned doubtful. “I think so. It depends.”

“On?”

“On whether I can perfect that magebane tincture. I’ve got three vials I have to test. With luck, one of them will work like it should.”

They walked on in silence that was, on Fenris’ part at least, contemplative. Birdsong twittered around them, and the trees rustled with wind that pushed puffy clouds across the sky above.  After nearly a full minute, he said, “How do you expect to… test these potions?”

There was a check in her step as she looked over, blinking once, then twice. “I test it, of course.  Every mage is different; I’m making this for myself, so… _I_ need to be the one to test it.”

“And if it is successful?”

“A successful tincture will suppress my powers without…” she trailed off, looking as though the next words she was about to say were truly distasteful.  “Without affecting _me_ adversely.”  

Fenris suspected there was much she wasn’t saying. “And by ‘adversely,’ you mean…”

“I don’t want it to leave me insensible,” she replied, kicking a rock in her path. “I need to be able to _function_.  It won’t do me any good if I’m entirely defenseless. At the very least I have to be able to draw, aim, and shoot a gun.”

He nodded.  Those were all reasonable, practical conditions; he sent her a sidelong glance as he asked, “Do you expect those results, or do you hope for them?”

Hawke shifted her package in her arms, pursing her lips in thought before answering.  “A little of both. But that’s why I’ve got to test them.”  She hesitated, awkwardly, pursed lips screwing to the side, changing the tone of her expression. “I know you said you’d… help. When it came time to test them.”

“I did.”

Several more steps in silence.  Her throat worked as she swallowed once. “The first—I… when we get back to the farm, I’ll be ready for the first trial.”

“What, then, are your plans once your tests are complete?”

Shrugging slim shoulders, Hawke frowned at the road. “I suppose… Kirkwall. Isabela’s all for a trip, and Varric’s originally from Kirkwall—from what I remember, he has a brother living there.”

“It is a long journey.”

“Maker, _tell_ me about it,” she agreed, making a face.  “I think the best route’s up through Highever, though. Catch a boat from there and it’s a straight journey to the Free Marches.”

Fenris considered this. Her reasoning was sound—if Hawke was interested in keeping the journey as short as possible, sailing out of Highever was the obvious choice. Highever, though, was an expensive port.  “Highever and not Amaranthine?” he asked.

“The shorter I can make the trip, the better.”

He nodded.  “You wish to waste no time. I understand.”

Hawke startled slightly, then _looked_ at him.  “No. No, time… well, time’s got a little to do with it, but…”  She grimaced then, and shook her head.  “Trust me. The less time I spend on a boat, the better.”  Once she was satisfied he took her meaning, she nodded once.  The road before them forked, and when Hawke took the path that led to the right, Fenris followed.  

“In any case,” she went on, “I told you you were welcome to stay as long as you needed. This… still stands, of course. If you’d rather stay behind on the farm and move on at your leisure, you’re more than welcome to do just that.  Nobody’s kicking you out.  Wanted to make sure you knew that.  You can stay or you can leave. That part’s entirely up to you.”

“I… appreciate the sentiment,” he replied.  The Hawke farm was in sight now, the farmhouse nestled comfortably in a sea of green.  Few places, in his experience, were truly as peaceful as they appeared, but the Hawke farm was a notable exception. Fenris did not look forward to leaving it, but staying was not an option and never had been.  “It so happens I was en route to Kirkwall when you… happened upon me.”

Hawke stopped and looked at him a moment, brows raised.  “Well that’s… a happy coincidence.”  Surprise melted away with a grimace and she shook her head, adding, “Maybe not _happy_ , no, but… a coincidence.  If you’re traveling that way anyway…”  As if to punctuate her statement, she stepped off the main road and onto the crest of a grassy hill on the edge of the Hawke property.

“You are thinking we might make such a journey in each other’s company,” he remarked, following her.

Hawke shrugged and the smile she sent him was tinged with self deprecation.  “I was actually thinking _safety in numbers_ , but that’s just about the same thing.”  She took a few more steps then sat, setting her parcel aside.  “Working under the assumption I can get the potion straightened out sooner rather than later, it should take a little less than a week to get enough supplies together.”

“So long?”

Her expression turned thoughtful.  “That also gives Varric enough time to bail Isabela out of jail.” At Fenris’ expression, Hawke smiled and shrugged. “It’s practically tradition by now. I think whatever she does that gets her caught, she does on purpose. She probably thinks she’s helping to give Aveline’s—she’s Lothering’s sheriff—life more meaning.” After a pause, she added, “I… doubt Aveline agrees.”

“Probably not.”

They continued together down the hilly terrain, barn and farmhouse growing larger with each stride. “Well,” Hawke said, “I suppose that settles it. No putting off preparation longer than we have to, right?”  Her expression turned troubled as she looked inward, but before Fenris could comment, Hawke gave herself a shake and smiled, though it looked strangely brittle around the edges. “Besides, the sooner we leave, the sooner I can come back.” 

“That is one way of looking at it, I suppose.” He looked behind Hawke, to the barn. “Do you wish to test the potion this afternoon, then?”

With a brief glance back at the barn and an even briefer one at the house, she nodded. “Yes, I… yes.  Let me get these things put away and I’ll meet you in the hayloft. If we’re very lucky, I’ll get it right on the first try.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Fenris,” Hawke said with a snort as they both turned and started for the house, “if I had luck on my side, I wouldn’t need this potion to begin with.”

Having only replaced what he’d lost to damage, it hadn’t taken long for Fenris to put away his purchases, and the barn was quiet as he climbed the ladder to the hayloft. It was an easy spot to miss, the ramshackle table and shelves pushed against the far wall, hidden almost entirely by stacked hay bales. Dried bunches of elfroot and other herbs he did not recognize and could not identify hung from one of the lowest rafters, swaying gently in the breeze blowing through the open hatch, which let in light as well as air. Suddenly the table’s placement made a great deal more sense.  A lantern hung from a hook, unlit; the smudged, dark glass left him to wonder how many late nights Hawke had sat at this table, crafting and testing the potions she eventually sold.

He approached the table to find it was, in actuality, a door, propped up on either end by sawhorses, the surface riddled with scratches and scorch marks. To one side was a leatherbound notebook, blown open by the breeze, revealing page after page of scribbled notes and drawings entirely foreign to him.  The desk was weighted down with brass scales and a mortar and pestle and heavy bottles as well as smaller, lighter vials. He did not _touch_ anything, because these things were not his to touch, and yet he found himself unwillingly fascinated by this tiny corner, so very different from what he’d seen of the farm.  Even the scent of it was different; mingling with the sweet smell of hay there was the sharper, more medicinal scent of… something bitter, something beyond the herbs hanging from the rafters.  Something—

“Somehow I’m not surprised you beat me up here.” 

He turned to find Hawke pulling herself up the ladder. Gone was the dress from earlier; she was once again clad in trousers and a shirt he was beginning to suspect had once belonged to her brother. 

“It is… an interesting area.”

“Interesting,” she echoed, brushing the hay from her pants as she stood up straight. “That’s an improvement from Isabela’s ‘creepy’ and Varric’s ‘inspiring.’”

“Dare I ask what he found _inspiring_?”

Shrugging, Hawke pulled a stool from the shadows beneath the table and sat upon it.  “He’s a writer.  Damned near everything’s inspiring. The fact Isabela called it creepy first just made the inspiration twice as potent.”

“I fail to see what is ‘creepy’ about such a workspace.”

Hawke shook her head, pulling three blue vials closer. “She said it reminded her of the sort of thing a mad scientist might set up for himself.”  Fenris knew his expression was skeptical; when Hawke looked up and met his gaze, she gave a short laugh and nodded. “My reaction was much the same.” She sighed, then, holding the bottles so they clinked quietly together. “Then again, I’m about to run a series of experiments on myself, so maybe Isabela’s description wasn’t that far off.”

Fenris sat on the edge of a nearby hay bale. “You have told me little of what to expect.”

“I’m… not entirely sure what _to_ expect,” she admitted, drawing one leg up to rest her heel on the stool and wrapping her arms around her knee. “Still.  I know what I want the potion to do.  It might do what I need, or it might do more or less than I need.”  She looked up from the vials she held, meeting his eyes for a tense moment before looking down again.  “I suspect you’re interested in hearing the worst case scenario.”

“That would be a help.”

“I gather you know a bit about magebane already. You said it’s illegal in the Imperium?”  At his nod, she went on. “So you know it’ll inhibit spellcasting.  The problem is, at least for spirit healers, our magic extends beyond basic spells.  It’s… it’s a state of mind, almost.  I’m—well, I won’t say I’m _never_ sick, but I am very, very rarely ill. Can’t remember the last time I was, in fact. It’s because spirit healers heal themselves constantly—it’s second nature to us.  If you inhibit our magic, we’re more than just cut off from our mana; we can’t protect ourselves on the most basic level. It takes away our immunity entirely, so poisons like magebane pack even more of a punch.”

“This is why you are concerned with the strength of the tincture.”

“Partially,” she replied.  “Yes.”  Hawke looked at each vial for a long moment before choosing one and setting the other two aside.  “But also, because magebane does inhibit a spirit healer’s ability to heal, the corruptor agent in magebane… affects us—or me, at least—a little differently than other mages.” At his curious look, Hawke grimaced down to the vial she held.  “Let’s put it this way: if you’re very fond of your boots, you might want to keep your distance.”

He sent her a long, considering look before asking, “Are you sure it is wise to attempt this in a _hayloft._ ”

Hawke snatched up another tiny bottle before pushing to her feet.  “I’m damn certain it’s not, since you’re asking.”  She reached the ladder and sent him a grim smile, lightly tossing the second vial. It sailed end over end, and the bluish sheen it gave off couldn’t have been anything other than lyrium potion.  “You’re going to need that.”

Once their feet were again on solid ground, and before Fenris could ask anything more, Hawke freed the cork and put the vial to her lips.  She grimaced, letting out an inarticulate noise of disgust as she corked the bottle and shoved it into the pocket of her trousers.

“ _Maker,_ that’s _foul,_ ” she choked, eyes clenched shut.  “That may be the foulest, vilest thing I’ve ever tasted in the whole of my life.”

“Did you expect otherwise?” he asked, cautiously.

“I didn’t expect it to taste _good,_ if that’s what you’re asking. But that was something else entirely.” She spat once on the hay-strewn floor and coughed again.  Then, eyes watering as she wiped one hand across her mouth, her look of disgust never abating, Hawke called a ball of flickering blue flame to the palm of her other hand and began to count.

By the count of eight, the flames she’d called forth began struggling. 

By the time she reached a count of fifteen, the floundering globe started to shrink.

By twenty-three, the fireball had dwindled to a single, flickering flame.

In thirty seconds, Hawke could manage no magic at all.  Her brow creased in concentration as she _tried_ , but no manifestation of mana showed itself.

“Is it done?” he asked quietly.

Hawke swallowed hard and leaned against a support post.  Her complexion had gone strangely pale and beads of sweat broke out on her brow.  “We’ll see.  Still plenty of time for things to go sideways. And on that note, if I pass out, get that lyrium potion into me and bring me into the house.”  Despite her jesting tone, Hawke’s condition worsened with every second that ticked past. Her pallid face was soon slick with sweat, her shirt damp and dark with it, despite the mildness of the day.  

“Enough,” he said, finally, striding forward as he pulled the stopper off the bottle of lyrium potion, handing it to her.

“Not yet,” Hawke replied weakly, sinking to the ground.  She ran a hand through her sweaty hair, pushing it away from her forehead.

“Not _yet_?” Fenris retorted, incredulous.  “Did you not say you wished to develop a tincture that would _not_ incapacitate you?”

“Yes, but—” Whatever Hawke was going to say, the words died in her throat as a peculiar expression came over her face.  Scrambling to her feet, she lurched desperately to a bucket by the barn door where she proceeded to empty the contents of her stomach.  Once the wave had passed, she coughed and spat, shoulders trembling as she gulped in greedy breaths.

He’d never seen anything quite like it.

Then Hawke flung out her hand.  “Lyrium,” she croaked.  Wordlessly he handed over the vial.  Spitting once more, she downed the bottle’s contents and sank back to sit on the cold dirt floor.

#

Amelle hated magebane.

Amelle _really_ hated magebane.

She wasn’t terribly fond of laudanum right now, either. Didn’t seem possible something could taste just as bad coming up as it did going down, but that was life for you: brand new learning experiences waiting around every corner.  And then the whole mess got followed by a lyrium chaser, which tasted like nothing so much as licorice gone horribly wrong.

She didn’t care to think too much about the taste in her mouth right now. It was too important to keep that lyrium down.

“Thanks,” she managed, rubbing at her streaming eyes. 

Then the elf crouched down, the better to look her in the eye. “ _That_ was your _test_?” he asked, his voice a low growl as he enunciated every word with infinite care.

“That was my test.”

“And yet you don’t seem bothered by the outcome.”

“I’ll feel a lot better about the outcome after a good night’s sleep.  We’ll try again tomorrow.”  She winced, rubbing the back of her head where a headache was beginning to throb.  Magebane worked quickly—it didn’t matter a damn bit _how_ much her stomach rebelled, the poison was already well into her system by that point.  Lyrium _stopped_ the poison, but only time alleviated its effects.

His dark brows lowered and drew together into a scowl, his jaw tightening.  “I take it that was not what you’d consider a ‘worst-case scenario.’”

“Nope.”

“Dare I ask what _is?_ ”

Amelle considered this, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes.  “Magebane’s fatal in large enough doses.  That would’ve been a lot worse than this.”

He ground out a swear between clenched teeth. “You are _foolish._ ”

“I’m not _foolish,”_ she replied, sending him a doleful look. _“_ I know I need an even lower dose in the tincture.  This is how the process works. Trial and error. And error. And error. And error again.”

“You would do yourself such harm?”

The headache pounded worse, a steady tattoo inside her skull that tensed and pushed in a rhythm Amelle was certain would never stop.  With numb, clumsy fingers she tucked the empty lyrium bottle into her shirt pocket before shooting a narrow glare at Fenris.  “You didn’t seem too put off by the idea when I asked. In fact you commended me on wanting to control my powers.  Well, guess what, Fenris? _This,_ ” she said, flinging her arm out,  “is the price I have to pay if I want to control my powers.  If I want to remain undetected.  If I _don’t_ want to be found out by the templars.  I’m not doing this for _fun_.” She spat out the word as she heaved herself forward and began pushing resolutely—if unsteadily—to her feet, leaning heavily on the post for support.  “I’m doing this because what I’m trying to avoid is _worse.”_

Fenris said nothing. He said nothing for so long that the other sounds of the farm swelled to fill the quiet. The wind pushed through the pines.  Chickens clucked. Sheep bleated. Tomas and Kellen shouted cheerfully to each other as they hitched a pair of horses to the wagon. Still, Fenris said nothing. He only stared at her as if he’d never seen her before, and couldn’t quite figure her out.

Finally, he raised his chin—either in defiance or stubbornness; Amelle didn’t know which—and said, “What now?”

“Now I take myself to bed and sleep this off.” But as Amelle pushed away from the support beam, she took a few stumbling steps when her momentum stopped abruptly as a warm hand gripped her elbow, taking her weight.  He guided her arm around his shoulders, wrapping his arm around her middle, supporting her.

“You don’t have to—”

A muscle flexed in his jaw, but Fenris kept looking straight ahead.  “I said I would assist you. If this is what you require, then that is what I will do.”  

Without another word on the matter, he steered her out of the barn and up to the house.  Mama was doing some pruning in the garden, much to Amelle’s endless relief, allowing them entry without comment.  She’d explain to Mama she’d been testing a potion—but _later._

Later, when her head wasn’t pounding and she didn’t feel as weak and uncoordinated as a baby kitten.

Once inside, Amelle squinted up at the stairs.  “Right.  I think we can do this. I’ll grab the bannister and you can—“ But her words cut off with a yelp as Fenris slid an arm behind her knees and scooped her up instead.   

At her baffled look, he only shrugged his shoulders. “This is quicker,” he said tersely.

It was, indeed. Quicker, true, but awkward and strange and warm and _solid_. And what if his collarbone wasn’t healed to support such extra weight?  What if his knee gave out halfway up the stairs?  What if he misstepped? What if—

“Hawke,” he said, his low voice snapping into her thoughts and, apparently, _reading them_. “I am fine.”  

They reached the topmost stair before Amelle could think to reply, and before she could argue, Fenris shouldered open the door to her room.  Setting her carefully on her two feet, he remained on the threshold, watching silently as she took several trudging steps to sit heavily on the edge of her bed.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, resting her elbows on her knees and cradling her head in her hands.

Fenris gave a single nod and then, with only a hint of hesitation, crossed into the room and poured her a glass of water from the pitcher on her bedside table, pressing it into her hands.

“And thank you again,” she murmured before taking a long, deep drink.

“Is there anything else you require assistance with?”

“No, I…” but the words died out.  Amelle shook her head. “No. Sleep’s the only thing that will help me now.”

“Very well.  Do you expect to continue your trials tomorrow?”

Setting her water aside to unlace her boots, Amelle nodded.  “I promise, nothing will be quite as bad as today was.  Each dosage here on out will have less and less magebane in it.  The first test is always the worst one.”  She pulled off one boot, then the other, dropping them. They landed with a hollow knock against the floor.

Fenris looked a moment like he was going to say something, but his brows furrowed in a frown and he gave a minute shake of his head.  Then, afterwards, he asked, “And you are certain you will be recovered tomorrow.”

She nodded. “I am.”

“And you are continuing your trials tomorrow.”

Again, Amelle nodded.  “You know I am.”

He fell strangely silent then.  “And you will not be dissuaded.”

“No, Fenris. I will not be dissuaded.”

He looked down, a pensive frown creasing his forehead.  A second ticked by. Then two. Three. 

“Then I will continue to assist you.”


	9. Chapter 9

It took Hawke the better part of a week to test the first batch of magebane potion.  It was a process Fenris had absolutely no desire to witness again.  

Though Hawke had warned him more than once—warned him to the point her warnings had grown tiresome—the magebane’s effects on her would be unpleasant, Fenris considered himself more than capable of the task. He was, after all, no stranger to unpleasantness.  He was also perfectly aware of the reasons why magebane was outlawed in the Imperium, even if he didn’t particularly _care_ about those reasons, and had made use of the poison himself from time to time—when the occasion afforded itself—from the moment Danarius had first sent hunters after him.  As efficient as bullets were, they were far more effective against mages—mages who could heal themselves with a thought—when dipped in magebane.  The poison was not an easy one to acquire, but proved useful those times he’d acquired it.

He knew what it did, and yet.

And yet, from the moment Hawke first tilted the bottle to her lips and took that first swallow, Fenris found he could not remain detached and sanguine and simply _watch_ as Hawke’s condition deteriorated, second by second by second.  He drew no satisfaction—mage or no—from the sounds of her retching, or of the sight of her too weak to stand.

But she had asked his assistance, and he had promised to give it.

The second trial left Hawke worse than the first, leaving a cold clamminess upon her skin lasting two full days and the night in between. But the third—the _third_ trial left her only queasy and, though ill, but not violently so. The third potion still left her unsteady on her feet, but in no danger of losing her footing entirely.  

The third potion left Hawke looking—despite the sickly tinge to her cheeks— _optimistic._ He’d given her lyrium potion and had again assisted her to her bed, leaving her to rest while the poison cycled itself through her system, but there was no doubt whatsoever about it: she was moving closer to possessing a tincture to quiet her magic, rendering her all but undetectable.

The next morning Fenris found Hawke hunched over her workbench. The lantern was still lit, though the hour was well past dawn and pale shafts of light filtered through the open hatch as the soft, faraway clucks of chickens rippled the early-morning peace.  A cup of tea sat nearly forgotten by her elbow, mostly full but likely cold; with an absent gesture from Hawke, a glimmer of light pulsed up from the cup and the tea started to steam anew. She had several more cobalt blue vials in front of her, and with a pipette in her enviably steady hand, measured out magebane into each of the little bottles.

Hawke looked up when a board creaked beneath Fenris’ feet.

“You’re up early,” she said with a crooked smile, then looked back down again, gently setting the pipette on a square of oiled leather alongside several other tools.  She glanced briefly at her notes and nodded to herself before stoppering each of the small vials with corks numbered in ink, so she could tell the difference between the bottles.

“I could say the same of you.”

Her smile widened and she pushed away from the table, stretching out her legs and crossing them at the ankle.  “I barely slept a wink last night.”  At his raised eyebrows she nodded at the bottles and phials across her desk.  “I got up early to, ah, _dispose_ of the previous attempts and rinse out the bottles.”

Such a poison was not easily disposed of.  Fenris knew it and doubtless Hawke knew it too.  “Might I ask where you chose to dispose of them?”

The look she shot him was guileless, an echo of the woman he’d first met, capturing the crowd’s attention with her red dress, a wink, a sweeping curtsey.  It all seemed so _long_ ago, and yet he knew it had only been the better part of two weeks.  “The _well_ , obviously.”  Then guilelessness vanished with a cocked eyebrow and an arch grin.  “Appearances to the contrary, Fenris, I do know what I’m doing.”

His brows lowered.  “I did not mean to imply—”

She reached out, flicking a finger at the bottle of laudanum, her nail tapping against the glass.  “Burned it.  Early this morning.  I stayed away— _far_ away from the fumes, but… well,” she said, shrugging, “the alcohol in the laudanum burns off and takes damn near everything with it.”

He nodded, impressed.  “Effective.”  

“And _pretty_.  I’ve never seen anything burn quite like a magebane tincture.”  Then Hawke wrinkled her nose.  “Pretty enough colors to almost make up for the horrific stench of it, anyway,” she added.  “Maker have mercy, it was _foul._ ”

Fenris allowed himself a soft snort of laughter and took a step closer to the table, perching on the edge of a hay bale pulled away from the rest; it sat at a jaunty angle next to the worktable and held overflow from the shelves: a stack of books, some untitled—grimoires, no doubt—to thick tomes with titles including _Man from the Medical Point of View,_ _The Anatomical Society of Ferelden: A Journal of Anatomy and Physiology, Orlesienne Society Médicale: Une Étude sur Les Maladies et Les Infections,_ and _Herbology: Medicinal Plants of Thedas;_ bottles of ink and leatherbound journals, their pages rippled with wear between the covers and scraps of paper peeking out to mark important pages.  He took a seat on the edge of the hay bale, careful not to disturb the other items resting there.

On Hawke’s worktable, another leather journal lay open, only half the pages written on, the other half smooth and pristine and as yet unsullied by ink; a pestle weighted down the pages against the breeze coming through the hatch. “And now?” he asked.

“And now…” she echoed, looking at her work.  “And now I think I’m…” she ran a finger along a line of script in her notebook and pursed her lips.  “I think I’m close.  I think I’m very close.”  Hawke looked up, and her smile was back, reaching her eyes and warming them.  “Who knows?” Hawke said, holding his gaze; despite what Fenris suspected was residual paleness from the week’s tests, color flared at her cheeks.  She swallowed and then, though her smile widened, something in Hawke’s expression faltered like a shutter in a storm, and with a jerk she blinked and looked back down at her notes.  “You probably won’t even have to carry me back to the house this time.”

“Hmm.”

Hawke snorted, placing the pestle back in its mortar and closing her notes as she arranged and rearranged the small, slender vials according to strength.  “Please _try_ to rein in your confidence, Fenris,” she said lightly, smoothing a finger over the top of one marked cork.  “It’s embarrassing.”  Then, twisting slightly on her stool, Hawke picked up her teacup and took a sip.  “Well,” she said, tapping her finger against the rim of her cup as she slid a glance sideways to him, then back to her cup.  “That’s three more potions down.  One of them’s got to be my ticket into Kirkwall.”

“You’ll begin with the strongest of the three?”

She nodded.  “And work down to the weakest.”

Fenris nodded at the vials.  “How are you certain you’re getting the same amount from each sample?”

“It’s better, actually,” she said, turning on the stool again and setting her teacup on the table, “if the tests aren’t exactly the same dosage every time, you see—dosing myself on the road isn’t necessarily going to be a precise process.  As I need stronger doses, I’ll take more.”  As she spoke, she worked free the cork from one of the bottles and took the pipette up between her fingers.  “For my purposes right now, I’m taking…” Hawke dipped the pipette into the vial and measured out some of the liquid, “roughly this much, I’d say.”

Scarcely an inch of jewel-toned liquid shimmered in the glass tubing.

“It…”

“Isn’t much.  I know.  Magebane packs a wallop, as you’ve already seen.”  Then she reached out and released the suspended tincture into tea.  At Fenris’ look, she shrugged.  “No time like the present, I think.” She set the pipette aside and re-stoppered the vial. “And I’m curious as to whether _anything_ can make this stuff taste less awful.”  She gave the tea a quick stir, and took a cautious sip, and then another.

“Is the taste improved?”

Hawke wrinkled her nose and looked down into the cup, as if divining answers to an unspoken question in its depths.  “It’s still awful,” she murmured, putting the cup to her lips again and drinking deeply. “It’s just… a different _type_ of awful.  Hard to say whether it’s slightly less awful than before or slightly—” 

Hawke’s words cut off into silence as she went suddenly and entirely _white._   With a graceless abruptness he’d never seen from her before, she spun around on the small stool, her teacup falling clumsily from her fingers—he reached out, but bare seconds too late, and it landed with a hollow crack, splintering into three jagged pieces as it fell upon the plank floor, tea seeping into the wood grain.

“Hawke—”

“Shit,” she breathed, gripping the table’s edge.  _“Shit.”_

Her face, already gone alarmingly pale, started edging into grey—faster than any of the previous week’s trials—and Fenris pushed to his feet.  Hawke looked as if she were about to stand, but then tilted unsteadily and pitched forward.  Fenris caught her about the waist an instant before her knees buckled, keeping her steady as he maneuvered her down upon the hay bale, sending the tower of books toppling to the floor as he told himself her cold fingers and pale lips were _normal_ , that the deep bruise-blue shadows beneath her eyes were _normal_ , that every struggling, reed-thin breath was _normal._

#

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Amelle could not believe she’d done something so monumentally _stupid._

The pipette glinted innocuously in a shaft of early morning sunlight, its inside coated with laudanum and magebane. But above the line where the tincture had been, the glass still bore the faint shimmer of pure, undiluted magebane. Certainly more than enough to alter the concentration of her tiny dose.

Idiot. She was such an _idiot._

Damn him and his attentive questions and his damned _eyes_ and—damn him anyway.

Fenris said her name, attentive curiosity thickening into alarm. Well, at least there was that.  At least she wasn’t alone up here—granted, the fact that she wouldn’t have made such an error if she’d _been_ alone was neither here nor there.

Lyrium. She needed _lyrium._   Fenris had seen her through enough trials to know this step. There was a cache of potions tucked away on her topmost shelf. It was only two, maybe three steps from where she sat now, but retrieving a bottle of lyrium potion right now would mean first she’d have to stand, and then she’d have to _walk._ She gripped the edge of the table until her fingers ached and tried pushing to her feet, but the world tilted and swayed and the room _spun_ and Maker help her, she was _dumb_ sometimes.

And then Fenris’ hands, warm and _sure,_ were supporting Amelle, lifting her easily, setting her carefully on the bale of hay where he’d been sitting and she sunk to one side, supporting herself on one elbow.

To his credit, Fenris wasn’t hovering, wasting time asking foolish questions she couldn’t answer. (“What happened?” “What did you do?” “Why are you an idiot?”)  Bottles clinked and rattled upon their shelves as he rifled through them, searching, she knew, for that tell-tale blue shimmer.

“Top one,” Amelle managed, the words sounding dry and paper-thin to her ears.  Heaviness pressed in all around her—beyond the terrifying suddenness of Amelle’s connection to the Fade going suddenly, frighteningly _silent_ , her mana stilling in her veins as abruptly as a candle going dark in the thick of a storm—Amelle’s throat was tight and dry, and her icy fingertips had started to go numb.  The air around her was too thick and heavy to breathe; drawing it into her lungs was an effort—something Amelle realized around the same time she realized the thin, reedy wheezing wasn’t a far off goat or sheep in distress.  It was _her._

Then there was warmth beside her, a hand supporting her head, cool glass pressed to her lips and the welcome, bitter caress of lyrium potion upon her tongue, sliding down as she swallowed, coating her dry, raw throat.

The horrible weight crushing down on her slowly ebbed away and the pressure on her lungs eased.  Even her quieted mana was not so oppressively silent.  All that remained now was nausea’s leaden weight, clawing determinedly in her stomach.  Thank the Maker she’d only had tea this morning, and after a desperate, sputtering choke that nearly sent her tumbling away from Fenris (his hands still gripped her shoulders, preventing her from lurching away completely and falling to the floor or worse, out of the hayloft entirely), she didn’t even have that any more.

“Hawke,” Fenris finally said when the worst had passed. His voice was tight with urgency as he spoke her name, and when Amelle forced herself to look, she saw the very eyes she’d nearly got lost in earlier, glaring with enough heat to stoke the embers of her foolishness and carelessness and _embarrassment_.  Amelle grimaced and turned her head away; the taste in her mouth was vile and she imagined her breath wasn’t much better.  _Yes, let’s not subject him to bad breath after you nearly accidentally poisoned yourself_ , came the scathing thought _. Very good, Madame Healer._

 _“Hawke,_ ” Fenris said again, his scant patience vanishing so like her mana had moments ago.  “What happened?”

Fenris, Amelle noted distantly, did not let his voice tilt upward at the end of a question, like normal people did.  His inquiries came out as barely-controlled demands, and she knew if she didn’t answer him, didn’t tell him _something_ (not the truth, anything but the truth), those questions would only get growlier.

Growlier.  Was that even a _word_?

_“Hawke.”_

Didn’t matter, even if it wasn’t.  It was still apt.

Amelle took in a deep breath and let it out again.  “The pipette,” she muttered thickly, closing her eyes because she didn’t care to see Fenris’ reaction to her explanation.  “It was the pipette,” she said again, stronger this time. “I used it to measure out the magebane.  The residue… there was residue.”  She didn’t say any more for several seconds.  

“Which… tampered with its… strength.”

Amelle gave a weak nod.

He sighed out a word she didn’t recognize, but the cadence of which could not have been anything _but_ a curse.

#

It took far longer for the color to return to Hawke’s lips than it had for the poison to leech it away, but in time her fingers were, if not _warm_ , then less cold and clammy.  Gradually, _too_ gradually, the grey cast faded into something less deathly and Fenris exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

When green eyes opened—hesitantly, and with a flinch that told him her head was pounding—Hawke looked around blearily and then up at him as if she couldn’t understand either how they’d come to be there on a bale of hay, or why he held her, her body resting awkwardly against his.

“You must be more careful.”

She turned her head away, grimacing. “Don’t need to tell me twice.”

Once more of Hawke color had returned to her face, Fenris eased her to her feet.  Maneuvering the ladder down from the hayloft was managed carefully. Hawke acquiesced to Fenris carrying her down, slung over one shoulder, but the minute they were both on solid ground again, and without a word of warning, Fenris wrapped an arm around Hawke’s body, hooking the other beneath her knees and lifted her, ignoring the faintest twinges of complaint from nearly-healed injuries.  For a moment, Hawke looked as though she were going to protest, but then, with a tired sigh, she relaxed against him, closing her eyes.  The absence of any protest troubled him more than anything else and, setting his jaw, Fenris began the walk back to the house.  Hawke’s mother didn’t appear to be in the garden but—no, there, by the well and easy enough to evade.  He still didn’t know how much Hawke had told her mother of these… _preparations_ of hers and the less he had to explain, the better.  Fenris opened the door, fumbling the knob slightly before shouldering it open and letting it slam behind them.  Again Hawke winced.

He tried tempering his concern with every step up the stairway, boots echoing hollowly against the wood.  He’d been truthful when he told her he admired her desire to control her abilities.  He’d likewise been truthful when he said he trusted her judgment.  Intellectually he knew that such… mishaps were bound to happen, and in truth he was relieved to have been nearby when such an incident occurred.  

But he did not want to be witness to another such event.  

Setting Hawke carefully on the edge of her bed, Fenris dropped to one knee, briskly working first one boot free from her foot and then the other.

“Lie back,” he said, standing and turning toward the pitcher of fresh water she kept, pouring a glass.  By the time he turned back around, Hawke had curled herself beneath the quilt.  She looked small and pale, her short hair plastered dark and damp against her brow.

He pressed the glass into Hawke’s slack hand.  “Take this.”  Hawke drank with the tentative eagerness of one desperately thirsty, but afraid of the repercussions that came from drinking too much, too fast.  As she drank, Fenris walked from one end of the room to the other and back again, pausing at the open window.  He leaned forward, bracing both hands on the windowsill and looked outside.  Merrill emerged from the chicken coop with a basket of eggs hanging from one elbow, and Tomas and Kellen were hitching up one of the horses to the plow.  Leandra Hawke called out something to Merrill, who answered in kind—the rhythm of the Hawke farm beat like a steady, constant pulse.  He did not blame Hawke for wishing to stay; it was the sort of place that beckoned to you, urging you to stay, even if you had no place here.

He found himself wondering exactly what Hawke’s place was here.  For all she clearly loved the farm, she did not seem to have a… _place_ there.  It was none of his concern, but he found himself curious all the same.

Then her soft, hoarse voice broke the silence and scattered his thoughts.  “Thanks.”

His back to her, Fenris grimaced and shook his head.  “You… must not be so careless,” he said, the words awkward and thick in his mouth.  Hawke offered no reply but a tired sigh.

Several seconds ticked by before she spoke.  “I know.  I… it was going well.  I suppose I got… overconfident.”  Hawke paused, and for a moment Fenris was certain she was going to say something else.  But she only exhaled a long, exhausted sigh.  “Thank you,” she said again.  

Turning his back on the window and the activity below, Fenris looked again at Hawke.  She clutched the near empty water glass in both hands, though her eyes drooped shut.  Exhaling hard through his nose, he went to the side of her bed and gently extricated the glass from her hands, setting it carefully on the bedside table.  “You must rest.”

Her only answer was a sleepy hum he believed to be acquiescence.

Once Hawke’s breathing slowed and evened, her head lolling tiredly to the side, he dragged a chair to her bedside and, hesitating only briefly, sat upon it, fidgeting a few seconds before clasping his hands and resting his elbows upon his knees.  Hawke’s color was improving, but slowly, and there was nothing to do but wait for the magebane to leave her system.  

He did not enjoy _waiting._

It was still a foreign idea to Fenris,  that a mage would willingly undergo such measures for such a purpose—in his experience, mages never worried about concealment, never troubled themselves with anything but gaining power and influence.  And yet here Hawke was, voluntarily poisoning herself by inches for that very reason while Fenris watched, doing nothing more useful than handing her bottle after bottle of lyrium potion, knowing it would counteract the poison—it would _only_ counteract it—and knowing there was still more he could do for her.

That was the trouble, wasn’t it?  Fenris knew perfectly well there was more he could do to assist Hawke, and yet he balked.  What good could come of revealing _that_ to her?

What good indeed?

It was not such a revelation, he decided, breathing in and pulling at the power inside him, letting it grow and shift and burn until his skin was alight with it, if Hawke was not awake to observe it.  She slept on as Fenris laid white-glowing fingers against the top of her hand, allowing a slow trickle of the lyrium in his skin to phase into her.  After a time, the furrow at her brow relaxed.  The color returned to her cheeks.  Her breath cleared, coming in long, and slow, deep pulls, one after another, after another.

Fenris took his hand away, his markings going dim.  Hawke had saved his life.  This was not, perhaps, a direct reciprocation of that favor, but it was _something_ , and it was enough to make him feel as though he’d at least _begun_ to balance the scales between them.

#

It took less than three days for Amelle to perfect the tincture after that single—thankfully unrepeated—mishap; as she’d guessed, she’d been close to perfecting it, and sailing was smooth from that point on.  Her accidental poisoning hadn’t even turned out to be as serious as she’d feared.  A few hours of rest had her up and around, feeling more than well enough to return to her workbench and resume her trials.  Fenris still accompanied her, still assisted, though he was even more taciturn than usual during the process, which Amelle didn’t view as a problem, since it was his brief foray into attentiveness that had set the stage for her particularly spectacular bungle.  Taciturn was _good._

Once the tincture was ready, once she’d tested it and tested it and tested it again and then one more time for good measure—Maker, she was going to have to do something about the _taste_ —they began preparing for the trip in earnest.

The hour was so early the rooster hadn’t even split the dim sky with his call.  Everything was packed, saddlebags bulging with necessities, supplies strapped within an inch of their lives and attached to every conceivable surface.  They had decided it would be quicker to travel without the wagon, which meant stopping at inns when they could and sleeping beneath the stars when they couldn’t.  Varric had written ahead to a… _colleague_ in Highever who would board the horses while they were in Kirkwall.  (“A colleague,” Amelle had asked him dubiously, “who _won’t_ sell the horses the moment our backs are turned?”  The dwarf had promised her Falcon and company would be perfectly safe, and since Varric didn’t often _promise,_ Amelle trusted him when he did.)

It was a long ride to Highever, but their route was plotted with known inns and towns and safe places to rest. Unfortunately, and there was no going around it without adding even more days to the trip, one of the plotted rest points was Kinloch Hold.  Marshall Greagoir didn’t have quite the reputation Meredith Stannard did, but that wasn’t any reason to go courting trouble, in Amelle’s opinion.  She hadn’t even really wanted to pack a stave at all, given where they were going and where they had to go through to get there. At least when she traveled with Isabela and Varric and the wagon, they had some control in avoiding templar presence.  This trip, though, was a different kettle of fish entirely. But, all things being equal, it was more dangerous (to say nothing of _stupid_ ) to go without, so she packed Daddy’s staff anyway, all wrapped up in leather, at least marginally confident the bladed end would keep people from getting too suspicious.

Hah.  She had to walk around with a giant knife to _keep_ people from getting suspicious.

Amelle told herself this would be the perfect opportunity to test the tincture, but those reassurances did nothing to quell the nervous jittering in her stomach, and they hadn’t even left _home_ yet.

The screen door squeaked open and her mother’s light step clicked softly across the porch as she came to join Amelle at the railing.  Neither of them spoke for a moment, but it was her mother who wound up breaking the silence in the end.

“It looks like you’re nearly ready to go.”

Amelle nodded and let out a sigh. “Should be, and soon.  Even Isabela’s ready to head out, and you know how she is about mornings.”

Mama laughed, shaking her head at Isabela; Tango’s pack was as heavy as Agrippa’s was light. “Oh, it’s the travel she loves.  The adventure of it all.  Even I can see that.” 

Amelle nodded again because her mother was right, of course.  “I’ll remind her of that when she’s complaining of saddle sores.”

Mama wrapped a warm arm around her shoulders and Amelle couldn’t help but lean into it.  “Right before you give her something for them.”

“Like a boot in the rear?”

Mama gave her shoulder a light slap.  “Now, Amelle…”

She tilted her head to the side until it came to rest against her mother’s.  “I know, I _know._ ”

They stood in the pre-dawn hush and Amelle watched Fenris commune with Agrippa; the pale horse easily carried the lightest load and if anything she looked grateful for it, nuzzling at his hands, her ears pricked forward.  However long it took to get them to Kirkwall, that would be where they parted ways, and Amelle wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about that.  He’d been… interesting company these few weeks, if nothing else.  

She blushed to remember the sight of him, axe held firmly in his hands as he split logs into firewood.

 _Very_ interesting company.

“Darling?”  Mama’s voice broke into Amelle’s thoughts and her blush went suddenly flame-hot for a moment.

“…Yes?”

Mama looked out at the horses, Cedric grazing while Falcon stood placidly, eyes closed, tail moving like a slow, swishing pendulum.  “I do… understand how difficult this is for you.  Don’t think for a moment I don’t know that.”

Varric came sauntering up, Bianca bouncing gently against his back.  “Finally got the last of Isabela’s gear—”

“You mean the two new dresses she bought in town?”

He coughed into his fist.  “You know how she gets when there’s treasure involved, Hawke.  Anyway, we got Rivaini’s stuff packed and strapped. So whenever you’re ready…”  He looked between mother and daughter for a second and nodded.  “I’ll just… go make sure Isabela doesn’t try rearranging her pack again.  Whenever you’re ready.”

Straightening, Amelle turned back to her mother, drawing in a deep breath and pushing forward a smile.  Too many things about this trip had her worried, but that wasn’t a burden she was inclined to share right now.  “I… I know you do, Mama.  And I… think I understand why you asked.”  She didn’t _like_ it, and the prospect _scared_ her, but Amelle at least understood her mother’s reasoning.

“It’s been too long that my babies haven’t spoken.  No mother wants to see that, sweetling.  And no matter how it turns out… well.”  Mama reached up, running her fingers through Amelle’s short hair, her fingertips resting lightly against her temple.  “At least you’ll have tried.”  Her mother’s voice caught a little and when Amelle turned, she found her mother blinking back tears as dawn pricked the horizon.  “Thank you for going, Amelle.  And tell Carver—”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said softly, leaning close and brushing a kiss across her mother’s smooth cheek.  “And don’t give me any complicated messages to convey.  We don’t even know if he’s going to talk to me or not.”

Mama hugged her fiercely.  “I think your brother might surprise you if you let him.”

 _He might,_ Amelle thought, returning the hug.  _Let’s just hope it’s a_ good _sort of surprise and not one of the_ bad _ones._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse my bastardized French. ;) (I know there was once a debate in the DA fandom about how Orlesian isn't necessarily the same language as French, and I don't think it is either, but I didn't want to give a straight translation, even with a completely made-up book title.)


	10. Chapter 10

“You know, I’m starting to forget why cutting through the Bannorn straight to Highever was a bad idea,” remarked Amelle as she dismounted from Falcon’s back, her ankles aching with the shock as she landed. If she hadn’t been holding onto the worn leather saddle, her ankles might’ve given way entirely, her knees following suit, and when you got right down to it, a little sit-down didn’t seem like a half bad idea.  Rolling her shoulders she took a breath, directing tiny bolts of healing to her ankles, knees, back, and more importantly, her back _side._

Varric only snorted and took a long drink of water from the canteen swinging gently from Cedric’s pack.

“Anyone else?” she asked with a grin, wiggling her fingers.

“Send some of that my way, Hawke,” Isabela replied, tethering Tango to a tree. “Maker’s balls, give me a ship on open water any day,” she groused, pulling a face as she stretched her aching back. The ache—and Isabela’s complaints—vanished after a judicious application of mana, and Isabela flashed Amelle a brilliant smile before dropping herself down on a log and stretching out long legs to cross them at the ankle, bracing her arms behind her and tipping her head up into the mid-afternoon sun.  The weather so far had been depressingly usual for a Ferelden spring, and while the heat never edged into what any of them would consider _uncomfortable,_ there hadn’t been a day yet left uninterrupted by a storm or shower of some sort.  Amelle was starting to suspect she’d begun to mildew.

“The question is a reasonable one, dwarf,” Fenris said, dismounting as well and landing far more lightly than Amelle had, running one hand down Agrippa’s neck.  “The travel time would have been cut in half.”

“And when you’re not from around here,” answered Isabela, eyes closed and basking in the sun’s warmth, “that sounds downright sane.”  She paused, opening one eye lazily and arching an eyebrow at him.  “Guess what?  It’s not.”

“What Rivaini’s trying to say, elf,” Varric explained, walking slowly around the clearing and plucking up handfuls of grass and twigs, twisting the latter around the former as he began to build a small fire, “is the Bannorn’s no place for anyone just passing through.  Too many different families all fighting with each other.  Someone wins and gains some land, then someone else loses and that same land gets lost all over again. I’m surprised they can keep it all straight.”

“You’re assuming they _can_ ,” drawled Isabela, rolling amber eyes heavenward.  “They don’t take kindly to visitors and there are already too many stories out there of people going into the Bannorn who don’t come out the other side.”

This time it was Amelle’s turn to scoff.  She pulled her own canteen free from Falcon’s gear and took a long drink. “You’re making it sound like it’s the Wilds, you two.”  At Fenris’ puzzled look, Amelle shrugged a shoulder and shook her head.  “They’re not wrong. Not completely, at any rate. Lots of families out in the Bannorn, and damn near all of them fighting with and amongst each other.”  With a breath, she flicked her fingers at the pile of kindling; magical heat slowly leeched the green from the grass as it lit, flames further darkening the brown to black as the blades curled over and around the larger pieces of wood, until those too finally caught.  “And regardless of my companions’ inclination towards exaggeration, and as much as I hate to admit it, it’s… not a smart detour.  We’ve traveled through the Bannorn with goods to sell—they welcome traders of all sorts with open arms. But they’re less friendly if they catch you on their land without a good reason.”  The last thing any of them needed was to wander into a squabble between warring families; never could tell when the bullets might start flying.

Still, there were moments when a shorter trip seemed almost worth the attendant danger.  It’d been four days since they’d left Lothering, and never seeing signs of life any larger than mining camps so small they barely counted as any more than a place to rest their legs and freshen the horses.  One had an inn, but the less said about it (bedbugs at least the size of Amelle’s fist, no matter what Varric said about her own propensity for _exaggeration_ ) the better.  If they stopped now for a rest and to water the horses, they’d reach Kinloch Hold in time for dinner.

What nobody was discussing, and Amelle for one was glad of it, was the _other_ reason for stopping hours outside of town.  Kinloch Hold was home to the Ferelden Circle and the jurisdiction of Templar Marshal Greagoir, to say nothing of his sizable flock of deputies.  As of right now, all of Amelle’s earlier tests and trials meant absolutely nothing.  As of right now, _this_ was the only test that mattered.  

If pressed, Amelle would have admitted she was nervous about trying the potion when so much rode on the line.  She knew, when left to its own devices and not countered with lyrium potion, the tincture appeared to keep her mana undetectable for a solid six hours, usually a little more.  Even if it took them three hours to get to the Hold, it’d be another another three before her mana started returning, which left plenty of time for them to get to Kinloch Hold, lodge the horses and find somewhere dry and bedbug-free to sleep for the night.

A good plan, if you overlooked the _while completely surrounded by templars_ part of it.

“And you’ve never sold you wares in this part of the country?” Fenris asked, sitting upon the ground near the little fire.

“Other than Kinloch Hold, there’s not a whole lot _out_ here,” Varric explained.  “As you’ve seen.  Extensively. There’re plenty of other places to stop east of here, though, so that where we stick.”

“It’s probably something to do with not a whole lot of people wanting to live anywhere too near a Circle.  Real life sucks the fun out of living well enough.  Living that close to that many miserable people can only suck it out harder and faster, and believe me, no one’s more shocked than I that I just used _that_ analogy without meaning anything naughty by it.”

Amelle chuckled, brushing at some of the moss on Isabela’s log before dropping down next to her.  There were better times of year to attempt a journey like this one, but at least the weather was temperate when it wasn’t raining, and the wind tasted sweet and clean as it blew through the pines.

“It’s only one night, ‘Bela.”

“Bad sign when _you’re_ the one reassuring _me_ , kitten.”

Varric snorted.  “Hawke, what you should be doing is reminding Rivaini here just how many templars she could take at cards.”

Isabela gave a derisive snort.  “I bet they don’t even _play_ cards.  Probably some _law_ against it.”

Amelle gave Isabela’s arm a little pat.  “I’m sure you’ll be able to take _someone_ at cards tonight.”  Isabela brightened at the prospect, but from the corner of her eye she caught Fenris watching her as if he could not possibly comprehend the words coming out of her mouth.  “Something to add?”

He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again with a brisk shake of his head.  “No. It is nothing.”

Amelle was not wholly unconvinced.

#

After an hour’s rest, during which they partook of dried meat, brought from the Hawke farm, and filled their canteens from one of Lake Calenhad’s tributaries, Hawke tipped her head back and frowned at the sun’s placement in the sky.  She worried the little blue bottle of magebane potion in her fingers, turning the vial this way and that, rubbing her thumb along the smooth side, her brow furrowed in thought.  Before Fenris could begin to imagine the course of her thoughts, however, her frown smoothed away and she exhaled a short, resigned sigh.  

“We won’t be doing ourselves any favors if we delay any longer,” she said suddenly to no one in particular, dousing the fire with a quick flash of frost and ice that left only black-charred kindling steaming and smoldering at turns.  And then—quickly, as if she wished to act before she could talk herself out of it—Hawke twisted the cork from the tiny blue bottle and took a swallow of the liquid within.  Her features twisted in a grimace, and after she swallowed she spat upon the ground, then sent Fenris a wry look.

“The taste isn’t getting any better.”

“Did you expect it to?” he asked.

“Thought at least I’d _get used_ to it.”

“You’d do well to remind yourself that it’s _poison_ you’re talking about, sweet thing,” Isabela reminded her, swinging herself into the saddle.

Predictably, as the potion did its work, Hawke’s color drained from her face, reminding Fenris fleetingly of their first meeting—even then she’d been as pale as parchment beneath her face paint.  And that had been before she’d started using magebane at all.  He caught himself wondering how a spirit healer’s mana was tied to their health in general—but with a jerk he shut away that train of thought; he’d aided Hawke through her trials, and now that she had a working potion, the effects of said potion on her were none of his affair.  It did what it was supposed to do—quiet her mana—and that was what mattered.

Hawke tucked away the bottle down the front of her drab traveling shirt and made a move to heave herself into Falcon’s saddle.  Varric, already astride Cedric, started to dismount, but Fenris shook his head at the dwarf, striding to Hawke’s side.  The smile she gave him was both grateful and sheepish.

“That obvious, huh?”

“You forget,” he said, dropping to one knee and lacing his fingers, palms up. “I witnessed what effects the previous iterations of this potion had on you—among them, physical weakness.”

Two bright points of color flamed to life at her cheeks.  “Ah. Well.  Thanks.”  She hesitated only briefly before stepping into his hands and letting him boost her up into the saddle, sighing out a breath of what could have been relief or exhaustion once she had her seat.

Fenris turned back to Agrippa in time to see Varric and Isabela exchange a curious, pointed look, the nature of which sent irritation chasing beneath his skin.  Setting his jaw, he looked away and opted to behave as if he hadn’t seen the silent exchange, pulling himself with a grunt up into Agrippa’s saddle.

The ride to Kinloch Hold was uneventful.  They kept their pace slow, and though Hawke insisted she felt fine—her grip on her reins and the furrow at her brow put the lie to that assertion—the dwarf waved a hand and said the slower pace was better for the horses and that they’d reach Kinloch Hold in plenty of time for Isabela to fleece some of Greagoir’s deputies into a game of cards.

Having chosen to ride his mare behind Falcon, Fenris nudged her forward until he was riding alongside Hawke and her horse.  The hat she wore cast her face into shadow, but even that did nothing to conceal how very pale she was.

Green eyes glanced askance and a not entirely amused smile twisted at her lips. “Maker, I must look like death if you’re concerned,” she said in an undertone.  “Considering you’ve seen me at my very worst.”

“Are you…” the question stuck on his tongue, heavy and awkward.  “Are you well?”  Grimacing, he amended, “All things… considered, are you—”

She laughed, which he hadn’t expected.  “All right. From here on out if you ask me how I’m feeling, I’ll just assume the ‘all things considered’ is a given.”  At his nod, she swallowed and adjusted her grip on the reins.  “I don’t… like the feeling,” she said in an undertone.  “It’s—it feels _unnatural._   Everything’s too quiet, too still.  It’s different from the times I’d drained my mana magically.  I have to keep reminding myself everything’s fine.”  Her lips twitched.  “Fine as they can be smack dab in the lion’s den, at any rate.”

“I doubt Kirkwall will be much better,” he pointed out.

“Maker, tell me about it,” Hawke replied, rubbing Falcon’s neck absently.  “I’m trying to look at this as—as practice for Kirkwall.  Greagoir, at least, they say’s tough but fair.  Stannard…”  She trailed off, shaking her head.  Then, after a moment, her expression hardened with resolve.  “With a little bit of care and an extraordinary amount of luck, I won’t cross her path.”

Fenris found himself hoping—unexpectedly—it was so.

As they’d expected, they reached Kinloch Hold very near the dinner hour.  It was a busy town, bigger than Fenris had expected, and nowhere near as bleak as Isabela’s opinion on the place had led him to believe.  When he chanced a look at Hawke, however, her expression was perfectly blank.  He saw nothing of the concerns she’d expressed to him, no indication of fear aside from the way her fingers curled tighter around the reins she held.  The hotel they found was better appointed than any of them had expected, and once they’d made sure the horses were seen to, they carried their packs and saddlebags inside. 

They found themselves in the cool dimness of the hotel’s front room, one that was surprisingly well-appointed and bordering on lavish, with a shining wood floor and a massive oaken desk at least waist-high.  The late afternoon light cascaded through the windows, peppered with dust motes, bathing the wood with a golden cast and throwing into relief its intricately carved front and sides.  It was far finer than he—than any of them, he was certain, if the look on Varric’s face was anything to go by—was expecting.  

It was there Hawke’s blank mask cracked.  Her step faltered, and Fenris—who believed at first this reaction had to do with the magebane running through her veins—placed a steadying hand beneath her elbow.  The contact startled her enough that she turned wide, shocked eyes at him.  And there, through that crack, _fear_ flashed, bright and sharp as any bolt of lightning.

He frowned at her, but before Fenris could speak, could even form the words _what is the matter,_ a toneless female voice slid through the air.

“Welcome to The Kinloch Grand Hotel.  My name is Clara.  How may I assist you?”  

When he glanced back at the desk—and now the woman standing behind it—he found the speaker to be a woman with flame red hair pulled back into a plait that had then been coiled into a knot at the base of her skull.  And there, in the center of her forehead, was the image of a sunburst, branded into her skin.

Of them all, it was Varric who recovered from his surprise first, sauntering forward with a smile as he began arranging rooms for them.  Fenris had not had much occasion to deal extensively with any Tranquil; the practice had been outlawed in the Imperium, and by virtue of that he’d always thought it a worthwhile sentence for mages unable or unwilling to control their power.  

But now—now, as he watched the exchange between Varric and the desk clerk, even he became… unnerved by the woman’s quietude, the blankness of her gaze, the absolute precision with which she worked, looking first through the ledger of rooms—of which four were available—and then assigning each of them to their room, providing keys for each of the assigned rooms.  She did not respond to any of Varric’s conversation beyond providing direct answers to questions he asked and confirming or denying any observations he made.  Hawke, in the meantime, had recaptured her neutral mask; he released his grip on her elbow, though Fenris suspected it was not his imagination her face looked even paler than before. When he chanced a look in Isabela’s direction, he found her expression to be every bit as impassive as Hawke’s.

The desk clerk’s hand hovered over a small bell as Varric distributed the room keys.  “Do you require assistance with your bags?”

“No,” Hawke blurted, her voice tight despite the smile at her lips. But upon closer examination Fenris found her smile to be every bit as tight as her voice. He was certain he wasn’t imagining the taut line of her jaw, either, which gave every indication she was clenching her teeth.  “No, thank you,” she said more calmly, recovering her aplomb.  “I’m sure we’ll manage.”

The clerk didn’t press or insist; she only nodded and pulled her hand back to her side.  “Very well.  Please do not hesitate to alert any of the staff if there is anything you require to make your stay more enjoyable.”

With these words, Fenris exhaled without even realizing he’d been holding his breath at all.  The cool metal key was pressed securely against his palm—there would likely be a bath by day’s end, and a meal even sooner than that.  

“You okay?” Varric asked Hawke as he sidled up next to her.  Her only reply was a terse nod as they slowly made their way through the hotel’s front room and further on into the building, which opened up to an even larger area.  To one side was a surprisingly vast restaurant with pale gold carpeting and dark wood tables covered with pristine white tablecloths; decidedly appetizing smells wafted out, and from somewhere within a piano played a tinkling Orlesian tune.  White-jacketed waiters moved from table to table, all of them wearing identical brands upon their foreheads; Fenris snuck a sidelong glance at Hawke, who appeared not to have noticed that staffing detail.  And there, on the other side was a—

“Maker’s blood,” Hawke breathed in delight, staring at the grated doors, her earlier discomfiture if nor forgotten, then at least shelved for the moment. “Is that an _elevator_?”

“Looks to be,” Varric replied, quite obviously approving of this particular amenity.  “Couldn’t be happier to see it, either.  The fewer steps these legs have to climb, the better.”

Then the doors pulled upon.  A young man of no more than eighteen manned the elevator controls.  At the sight of the sunburst brand upon his forehead, Hawke stopped cold.

“I’ll take the stairs,” she said, taking no pains to conceal the tension in her voice.

The look Varric shot her was shrewd, but it was Isabela who reminded her, “We’re on the fourth floor, kitten.”

“I’ll be fine.  Go.  I don’t— just go.  I’ll take the stairs.”

Isabela’s frown deepened.  “You weren’t feeling well earlier,” she said, a pointed note in her voice.

Hawke drew in a deep breath and let it out.  “I’ll be fine.”

“Which floor, sers?” asked the young man, tilting his head in an eerie endeavor of something that might have been curiosity once.

“Go ahead,” Hawke pressed.  “I’ll be—”

Stifling a sigh, Fenris took the saddlebag from where it hung heavily over her arm.  “Go on,” he told Varric and Isabela, who exchanged a concerned glance.  “Go,” he said again.  “I will use the stairs as well.”

She blinked at him.  “…I—what are you—”

“If you wish to take the stairs,” he said, likewise relieving Hawke of the pack slung upon her shoulder, “no amount of cajoling will change that.”

“Elf’s not wrong about _that,_ ” muttered Varric as he and Isabela stepped into the small room.  The grated doors creaked as the elevator operator pulled them shut.  A louder creak and a groan shuddered up from below, the force of it so strong Fenris was certain the floor trembled.

Some novelties, he decided, watching the small compartment carrying Isabela and Varric drift upward, were better off _remaining_ novelties.

Beside him, Hawke blinked again, her expression edging into affront.  “Did you just call me—I think you just called me _stubborn._ ”

“You are unwell,” he said evenly, choosing—he thought— _judiciously_ to refrain from commenting.  Then Fenris turned upon his heel and strode briskly toward the red-carpeted stairway, “And as such, it is foolish to walk such a distance alone.”

Hawke trailed behind him.  “I am not _stubborn._ ”

“As you say.”

“I’m _not._ ”

He turned then, bracing one hand against the thick, polished banister, and glowered down at Hawke—she was still pale, her movements still too slow, too methodical to be natural—and leaned forward as he gritted out the words, “You are _unwell_.  And considering the circumstances under which you find yourself unwell, I would suggest a moment of consideration before you make such a statement again. You have likewise chosen to walk four flights of stairs to your room. You know your own mind, and that is nothing to be ashamed of, but _do not_ attempt to direct phrases to me like _healer’s orders_ and expect me to agree blindly when you imply you aren’t stubborn.  You _are,_ ” then, lowering his voice, he added, “and it is the reason you have lived as long as you have.”  And before he could say anything more that could have been to his detriment, Fenris turned again and pushed on up the stairs, his bag and Hawke’s in hand.

Hawke didn’t speak, and Fenris didn’t look behind him again until they reached the fourth floor.  There was no sign of Isabela or Varric, which either meant the elevator had delivered them safely to their floor and they were already ensconced in their rooms, or… not.  Given the relative quiet and noteworthy lack of terrified screaming, Fenris deduced it was the former.

He turned his head a fraction.  “Which room?”

A pause.  “Forty-three.”

With a nod, he carried her things to the door bearing that number engraved on a shining brass plate and waited for Hawke to twist the key in the lock.  The heavy wooden door swung open silently and he carried Hawke’s belongings into the room and deposited them on the foot of her bed.  The room itself was as comfortably furnished as the rest of the establishment had led him to believe it would be. The bed looked comfortable enough that Fenris suspected the mattress owed its plumpness to goose-feathers; several equally as plump pillows rested against a shining brass headboard.  Shining dark wood furniture sat solidly in the room, the whole of it smelling of polish and lavender, a vase of which sat upon the bedside table.

The door shut with a quiet click.  When Fenris looked up, it was to find Hawke standing with her arms crossed protectively over her body, her gaze fixed steadily on the middle distance.  Color stained her cheeks.

“Hawke—”

“You’re right,” she blurted.  “I—you’re right.”  She reached up to pull the wide-brimmed hat from her head and tossed it on the bed, raking her fingers through her hair once before wrapping her arms around herself again.  “You’re right and I’m not going to pretend you’re not.”

She paused, though it did not sound to Fenris like the sort of pause that invited comment, so he withheld, choosing instead to watch her clench and unclench her jaw, a scowl darkening her features while she wrestled with what to say.

After what seemed like endless minutes of silence, Hawke lifted her gaze and met his eyes.  “When I was small,” she began, taking a breath and letting it out, but never pulling her arms away from her body, “my father—when I would misbehave, my father would…”  She tipped her head back, biting down on her lip. Finally she closed her eyes and addressed the ceiling.  “When I would misbehave, he’d say, in this deep, booming voice, he’d—he’d say, _Do you know what templars do to mischievous, troublesome children?_ —and of course I knew the answer— _Tranquil_ —and I always laughed when I said it.  It was like… some… monster under my bed I didn’t believe in.”  

With slow, deliberate movements, she unfolded her arms and walked to the window overlooking Kinloch Hold’s main street, where men and women walked to and fro, carriages and carts clacked along, each with its own unique hoofbeat rhythm.  “I always—it’s different when you know something’s possible in theory…” She leaned forward, bracing her hands against the windowsill. “It’s so _different_ when you see theory put into practice.”  After several more seconds, she looked up again, her expression flayed raw.

“You were… a child.”

“I was, then.” She shrugged, straightening and dropping her arms so they hung limply by her sides.  “So what’s my excuse now?”

“Now you are being faced with a reality you did not realize before,” he told her. “Now you have the choice to behave like a child or an adult.”

“I suppose it’s better for all of us I didn’t give in to the urge to run out screaming,” she murmured, a faintly self-deprecating smile twisting her lips.

“I would say that’s accurate.”

Exhaling deeply, Hawke brought her fist to her chest, pressing against her breastbone; it took Fenris a moment to realize her hand rested against the very spot where the bottle of magebane hid for the moment.  “It’s a funny feeling, realizing your fears were justified.”  Her brows twitched together.  “I don’t recommend it.”

But Fenris’ own fears had long since been justified.

His answering smile was a mirthless one and he turned for the door.  “All will be well.  You are proficient in your craft and have taken precautions.  There is little more you can do but remain vigilant.”

Her smile was a tired one, worn and pinched around the edges, not quite meeting her eyes, and Fenris suspected it was only partly due to the potion she’d taken.  

“Sometimes, Fenris, it feels like vigilance is all I’ve got.”


	11. Chapter 11

Amelle hated Kinloch Hold.

Granted, she hadn’t been looking forward to the visit from the start, and while the town was larger and more bustling and _nicer_ than she’d expected—or than the mining camps they’d traveled through on their way here had led her to believe—in it she also saw her worst fears, fears that had seemed amorphous and unreal as a child, turning insidiously solid and _real_ as she’d grown up.  Fears she’d, eventually, learned to cope with.  Insofar as “humor” and “denial” were coping mechanisms.

Her father had told her about the Tranquil. He’d been a Circle mage once, thought it didn’t have much to recommend it, and so had escaped. He’d told her stories, of course. Daddy had always enjoyed a good yarn. Most of his tales were cautionary ones, meant to provide lessons—valuable ones—for his two mage daughters.

And now that old advice came back to her: _Don’t get involved, Mely._

She’d never wanted _less_ to get involved anywhere, with anything, and for as hungry as she was, and how utterly and desperately she wished for a bath, she would have been entirely content to remain in her room until it was time to leave.

Shaking her head, she crossed the room where Fenris had dropped her things on the bed.  Her lyrium, she’d decided, would be safest if it was hidden in her bedroll, which she now pulled off the foot of the bed and stowed underneath.  She was reasonably sure templars didn’t wander through guests’ rooms specifically looking for contraband materials, but it was still reassuring to know her lyrium potion was tucked away and kept out of sight, rather than clinking around in her bags where anyone might accidentally (or not) happen upon them.  She had other, more practical potions on hand, but none of them magical or suspicious—ointment for the horses, restoratives for the humans. Nothing at all that might cause anyone to lift an eyebrow at her.  But no, lyrium potion was safely hidden, and there wasn’t a speck of contraband to be seen anywhere.  Good.

Rummaging through her pack, Amelle tugged free a fresh pair of trousers and a shirt, setting them out so they’d have time to air out a bit—with all the rain, everything smelled a bit… _damp_ —before the next day’s departure.  Then she rocked back on her heels and surveyed the rest of the clothing she’d brought.  There wasn’t much, but maybe she could—

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts and sent Amelle starting out of her skin.

“Hawke,” Isabela called, the wood muffling her voice. “Open up, kitten, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

She opened the door to reveal the woman in question, her traveling clothes every inch as sweat-dark and dust-crusted as Amelle’s own. She was smiling, though, and while Isabela’s smile often worried Amelle (more often than not this was the case), the key she held, dangling from a slender chain, piqued her interest.

“I got us _baths_ , kitten,” came the smug, self-satisfied announcement.  “Get your clothes.”

Amelle blinked at her.  “Baths?”

Isabela’s smile widened.  “You heard me. Baths.”  

She blinked. Again.  “Baths,” she echoed.  Again.  

Amelle’s stomach gave a sudden sideways lurch, her mouth working in silence a moment as she glanced over Isabela’s shoulder into the deserted hallway and wrestled with all the different ways she could tell Isabela how and why _that_ was the worst idea she’d had in a very long and storied history of _immensely bad ideas_.  “I… I thought, maybe—”

“If you say, kitten, you were thinking about spending the whole night in your room…” Isabela stepped forward, letting the door shut behind her, the slam both punctuating her statement and filling it with no end of unvoiced threats.  

“I…”  But Amelle’s voice cracked on the syllable; she swallowed away the dryness—tried to, in any case.  The problem was—well, there were several problems, but the _main_ problem was all of Kinloch Hold loomed over and around Amelle like a silent chorus of unvoiced threats, so Isabela’s particular, _familiar_ brand of threat had very little effect on Amelle.  “I—“ she began again, then tossing up her hands as she turned to stride to the end of the room.  “This was a bad idea.  It was _such_ a bad idea, and now we’re here, waist-deep in _bad idea_ and that’s too damned deep to haul ourselves out now without looking suspicious.”  She brought one hand up and pretended not to notice the way it trembled as she pinched the bridge of her nose.  “Tranquil, Isabela,” she breathed.  “I didn’t know there’d be—”

“None of us _knew_ , Hawke,” Isabela broke in.  “Not even Varric—you saw his face.  And if anyone ought to have known—”

“If anyone ought to’ve known the whole staff in this whole stupid hotel was Tranquil, it was Varric?”  Well, yes, Isabela had a point there.  “Maker’s blood,” she breathed, pinching harder at her nose and walking in a small, tight, controlled circle.  The whole—the _whole_ _staff’s_ _Tranquil_.”  

“We’ve noticed.  Trust me.”

“You don’t—don’t you understand what that _means_?”  It meant there were a whole lot of people, enough to man a one heck of a big fancy hotel—people who’d once been mages, mages who’d been cut off from the Fade.  

Daddy had always said—and Amelle agreed now, oh, she agreed—death was a kinder fate than the Rite of Tranquility offered.

“Not as intimately as you do, I’d wager,” Isabela answered, her voice low as she shifted her weight and crossed her arms over her chest.  “Look.  All I know for sure is what the kid in the elevator told us.  This is paid work they’re doing; most of it’s sent back to the families they left—makes sense, most of them probably came from farmers and merchant families who lost a warm body that might’ve otherwise plowed a field or learned a trade.  It’s not ideal, but it’s a damn sight better than some of what I’ve seen—you too, I’ll remind you.  Or have you already forgotten that sweet little mining couple you so gave so charitably to back in Ostagar?”

Amelle winced.

“No, I wouldn’t have thought you’d forgotten.”  Isabela heaved a mighty sigh, crossing the room in a thump-jangle of boots and buckles and sat on Amelle’s bed, sending her a perfectly level look, void of any jest or joke.  “We’re all being careful.  I promise you that.  But part of being careful enough to blend in means doing something you absolutely do not want to do, because the opposite would look even more suspicious.  So.  That all said, I propose we take full advantage of the two tubs of _gloriously_ hot water I procured for us—indoor hot water, might I add, kitten—and then we are going to get dressed—you in that adorable yellow number you don’t think I know you bought back in Lothering—and then we are going to have a delicious dinner, and afterwards Varric and I are going to see if there’s a proper card game going on in this town, while you and your elf—“

“He’s not _my_ —“ Amelle began to protest, feeling her face go suddenly, uncomfortably hot.

Isabela just arched an eyebrow, taking no pains whatsoever to hide her little smirk at Amelle’s discomfiture.  “While you and _that_ elf decide how to entertain yourselves for the evening.  If you’re looking for suggestions, though,” she added with a wink, “I’ve got plenty.”

Amelle shot Isabela a scowl as she started going through her things, pulling free the yellow dress in question.  Annoyances and innuendoes aside, Isabela… had a point.  “Yes,” she muttered as she rummaged through her pack, “that’s partly what I’m afraid of.”

#

The Kinloch Grand did indeed have baths.  Indoor ones, with hot water, as Isabela had promised.  Each floor had on it a private bathing room available for reservation, and a private water closet; evidently it was sheer dumb luck Isabela had managed to reserve a bath for them on such short notice and so close to dinner.  The room itself was larger than Amelle might’ve otherwise expected, with high ceilings and pale yellow walls. Tall, narrow windows covered with gossamer curtains let in the late afternoon light and ornate sconces held flickering lamps that turned the waning sunlight positively golden; the two deep, copper tubs in the center of the room _gleamed_ under the light.

Amelle loved a good bath, and considered herself an expert—a connoisseur, even—on the subject.  And despite the… extenuating circumstances, this one, in her considerable opinion, had potential to be one of the best.

The bathing attendant—a middle-aged Tranquil woman, whose ash-blond hair was cut to her shoulders, the fringe across her forehead almost successfully hiding the sunburst branded into the skin—mixed salts and oils for the steaming water, a combination meant to soothe a weary traveler’s aching muscles.  Amelle sat on a divan situated against one wall, watching the woman work.  The oils and salts mingled with the steam in the air and Amelle breathed in the scent of embrium.  No doubt about it, she was a weary traveler with aching muscles. Even if she’d had a drop of mana to apply to that ache, she wouldn’t have dared do so.  But the embrium’s presence in the mixture was… promising.  If nothing else it implied the attendant knew something about herbalism, at least, which left Amelle… quietly surprised.

The woman poured the bath mixture into the two soaking tubs, side by side and separated by a folding privacy screen, turning away discreetly as Amelle and Isabela removed piece after travel-filthy piece of clothing and lowered themselves into the tubs.  From the other side of the privacy screen, Isabela swore.

“Is there a problem?” asked the attendant.

“No,” Amelle managed, not quite able to keep the groan from her voice.  “No problems here. None whatsoever.”

There was a drippy splash from the other side of the screen, followed by a long sigh.  “Sweet thing, we are entirely problem-free right now.”

No doubt about it, two copper tubs filled with pure _bliss_ wouldn’t have felt better, and Amelle closed her eyes, exhaling a deep, exhausted sigh as she tipped her head back against the edge of the tub.

“Mind doing away with this?” Isabela asked, flicking a fingernail against the screen, water droplets splashing on the floor.  “We’re all friends here.  Right, kitten?”

Amelle only rolled her eyes and sunk further down in the bath, letting the warmth soak into her skin.  “Please excuse my friend,” she mumbled. “She forgets sometimes the word _propriety_ exists at all.”

“I haven’t _forgotten._   I just don’t _care._ ”

“It is no trouble, miss,” replied the attendant, collapsing the screen.  She turned to them both, hands loosely clasped as she inclined her head.  “If you wish to make use of the laundry service, I will collect your clothes and have them cleaned and returned to you by morning.”

Amelle’s brows nearly reached her hairline.  “You can _do_ that?” she asked as Isabela’s head fell back against the tub’s rim with a metallic thud, exclaiming loudly, “Maker’s balls, _yes._ ”

“Wait,” Amelle said, gripping the edge of the tub and peering down as the the attendant began collecting their clothes.  “How?” she asked, hopefully tempering wary suspicion from her tone, leaving only innocent curiosity.  “How are you able to get them back so quickly?”  She wasn’t sure she really wanted to hear the answer.  In any case, she was pretty sure she already knew it.

The attendant glanced up briefly as she explained—and there was no way Amelle was ever going to get used to that slow, measured speech, the tone of voice calmer even than the stillest pond on a windless day. “Apprentice mages who have come into their skills are enlisted to apply heat to the clothes to dry them more promptly.  They learn to better control their connection to the Fade with such exercises.”

Arching an eloquent eyebrow, Isabela drawled, “And if a twitchy apprentice turns someone’s trousers to ash?”

“The hotel replaces the garment,” the woman explained.  “But such occurrences are rare.”

Amelle swallowed hard.  That was a trick she was already well-acquainted with, and made frequent use of herself, but to hear it put that way…

She chewed lightly on her lip.  “So… so mages work here in… in the hotel as well?”

Holding the bundle of clothes tightly to her chest, the woman nodded. “Those who show promise do.  Apprentices with control over fire or ice heat the water for baths or work in the kitchens. Those versed in earth magic help tend the grounds.  Those more experienced who demonstrate appropriate aptitude train in the kitchens.”

“I… see,” Amelle replied.  From the corner of her eye she caught Isabela sending her a warning look and she tried not to sigh.

“You’ll have to excuse my friend,” Isabela said, fairly oozing sincerity.  “She’s a bit”—she lowered her voice conspiratorially— “ _put off_ by mages. You know.”

Of course, the attendant exhibited nothing of surprise, affront, or apology.  She only nodded.  “Many guests are.  However, none of the staff wish to be the cause of any discomfiture.”

“I’m—I’ll be fine.  You needn’t… worry about it.”  Amelle couldn’t quite say the words without cringing, but the attendant simply nodded, made a note of their room-numbers, and left them to their privacy, closing the door behind her.

Once they were alone, Isabela threw a glare over the edge of the tub.  “You really need to work a little harder at _fitting in,_ ” she hissed.

Looking pained, Amelle sunk down further in the water, cupping some in her hands and splashing her face. “You’re right.” She slipped beneath the water’s surface and ran her fingers through her gritty hair before surfacing again, wiping the dripping water out of her eyes.  “I just—”

“I know,” said Isabela, and Amelle believed her.  “ _Trust_ me, kitten, I know.” The ensuing silence was punctuated only by soft splashing as they scrubbed away what couldn’t have amounted to anything less than a full ton of sweat and grime.  Finally, Isabela spoke up again.

“Just so you know, I’m almost afraid to ask, but _have_ you got anything like a plan for when you get to Kirkwall?”

“I suppose,” Amelle answered, running a short lock of hair between two fingers. The strands squeaked. “Some people might loosely refer to it as a plan.”

“Some people?”

“People not you.  Or Varric.”  She made a face.  “Or… me.”

“How utterly unreassuring,” she murmured, unimpressed.  “What you’re saying is you have no plan.”

Amelle flicked one finger at the water’s surface, making it ripple.  “Let’s be honest—I don’t even know how long it’s going to take to _find_ Carver.  Kirkwall’s a big city, and my brother’s just one man.”  

Isabela let out a sigh that fairly thrummed with disappointment.  “You have _no plan._ ”

“It’s a work in progress,” Amelle countered defensively, staring up at the ceiling.   “Get to Kirkwall in one piece.  There you go, that’s phase one.”  She looked over to find Isabela arching a skeptical eyebrow at her and then, with a sigh, Amelle returned her gaze to the ceiling.  “Considering I half expect Carver to refuse to see me at all, having a plan of any sort feels like courting trouble.”

“Which you are clearly _not_ doing right now.”  Sarcasm dripped from her words and hovered in the air.  _Heavily._   “So, concerning your complete lack of anything remotely resembling a plan—”

“Not getting killed is a lovely plan, Isabela,” retorted Amelle mildly, dipping her fingers in the water and flicking some at Isabela.  “I’m quite attached to it.”

“The first thing you’re going to need to do is find somewhere to stay,” she said, going on as if Amelle hadn’t spoken.  “Depending on how long we’re stuck there—”

Amelle sat up, sending the water sloshing to one end of the tub.  She stared at Isabela, blinking once.  Twice.  Three times.  “Wait. You’re… staying?”

“Unless I run across a schooner with a morally lax crew waiting for a woman with a firm hand to come along?  Yes.”

Amelle tried not to let her relief show; she suspected she failed fantastically.

“You’re going to need a source of income, too,” Isabela reminded her.

At least that part was easy.  “Lucky for us I have a marketable skill.”

“A point in your favor. Have you brought along any of your supplies?”

Amelle shrugged and water sluiced down her shoulders.  “I brought a few things.  I can buy or improvise the rest.”

“And lo,” Isabela said with a satisfied wink and grand sweep of one dripping arm.  “A plan was born.”  Settling back in the tub, she closed her eyes and let out a satisfied little hum.  “We can work out the details on the way.”

“So I need a place to live and a job.  How is that a _plan_?”

“Consider it parts two and three following _not getting killed._ ”  

Several moments passed in silence, tight, knotted muscles slowly releasing as the past few days melted away in embrium-scented steam.  Sleeping would have been unwise, but it was so very tempting.  Amelle slid down in the tub until her chin touched the water.

“Tell me something.”

Rolling her shoulders—and her eyes—Amelle let out a low groan, flexing her calves and wiggling her toes in the warm water. “I will tell you _anything_ if it means peace and quiet for the next ten minutes.”  But when she turned her gaze to the other tub, it was to find Isabela, one arm resting on the ledge of the tub, her chin resting atop her wrist, watching Amelle.  Her expression was inscrutable.

“How hard are you going to try to get Carver to talk to you?”

Well, shit.  She hadn’t been expecting _that._   Amelle… didn’t answer right away, in part because it was a question she’d asked herself more than once since she’d decided she was going to make the trip to Kirkwall in the first place.

“I don’t know,” she finally answered.  “It depends on how vehemently he doesn’t want to see me.  He was… angry when he left.  Could be he’s less angry.  Could be he’s just the opposite of that.  Time’s a funny thing.  People change when it passes.”

Isabela’s pause was a thoughtful one.  Troublingly so.  Amelle opened one eye and looked over at her.  “Something to share?”

“Just thinking.”  She pursed her lips in something too melancholy to be a smile.  “About time.  Mistakes.  How they shape us.  Make us who we are.”

Amelle’s answering laugh was just as mirthless.  “And this does have the potential to be a whopper of a mistake.”

“Didn’t say I thought you were the one who made the mistake, sweet thing.”  But before Amelle could comment, Isabela’s expression slid like quicksilver into one far more mischievous, and far more familiar.  “But _speaking_ of mistakes—and whatever is the exact opposite of the word—talk to me about the broody elf.”

“How does Fenris have anything to do with mistakes?”

“You were the one who invited him to stay after he had his hand in your chest. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that little scene.”

“A scene that was never repeated,” Amelle reminded her.  “And there’s nothing to tell.  He was useful around the farm and he helped me a bit in mixing the tincture.”  What Amelle didn’t tell Isabela, what she absolutely _would not_ tell Isabela, were the times he caught her before she fell, or how swiftly he administered lyrium potion when she required it; she would not relay how often and how effortlessly he’d carried her from the barn up to her own bed, or about the warmth of his shoulder against her cheek, or the way he’d worked the boots from her feet before pulling her quilt up to her chin.  Amelle had no intention of sharing with Isabela how Fenris had stayed, standing by the window like a sentry until she’d finally given in to slumber’s pull.  

“Well?” the other woman prompted.

“Well nothing,” replied Amelle primly, closing her eyes and sinking further down into the water; it had started to cool and she wanted nothing more than to soak up every last bit of heat she possibly could.  “He thinks I’m competent at my craft, whatever that means.  I suspect it means he tolerates me; it’s not as if we’re friends.”

“Mmm.”

Amelle allowed herself a wry, unsurprised chuckle. “You disagree.”

“Last time I checked, men who found women _competent at their craft_ did not make a habit of offering said woman a leg up onto her horse.”

“He knows the side-effects of the potion, Isabela. I daresay he knows them as well as I do. He probably expected me to—”

“ _Want_ to take the stairs?”

Amelle snorted.  “Considering he _scolded_ me on the stairs, I’m not so sure I’d read too far into that if I were you.”  

“Ooh, a _scolding,_ ” Isabela purred, smirking.  “You naughty, naughty thing, you.  Mmm, you’ve got to love a man not afraid to—”

“I don’t have to do anything of the sort.  In any case, I have no doubt he’ll be glad to be free of me the second we set foot in Kirkwall.”

The sound Isabela made was a noncommittal one.  “I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

“And I have a feeling you’re going to find yourself disappointed when we do.”

By the time the water had gone cold, and after Isabela had groused over Amelle being entirely incapable of warming it up again, they emerged from their tubs, drying off with the thick towels hanging perfectly straight on the nearby racks.  Amelle tugged the privacy screen open again and made a face at Isabela when she laughed.

“I only look when I know you won’t catch me,” she teased.

Amelle let out a snort.  “All the more reason to guard my modesty, don’t you think?”

“Guard away, kitten, if you think it’ll do any good.”

The attendant had hung the “butter yellow number,” as Isabela had taken delight in calling it, on Amelle’s side of the little room.  The steam from the bath had done a… fair job of easing away the worst of the wrinkles.  It was every bit as floaty and impractical as it had been when she’d first seen it, though still likely wasn’t half as fancy as what any of the other women would be wearing downstairs, even if the sleeves were shorter and the décolletage a little more daring than Amelle typically favored. It hardly mattered; she’d made sure to pack as lightly as she could—there simply wasn’t room for steamer trunks and hatboxes.  

This was, as far as she was concerned, a dress perfectly suitable to eat dinner in.

“You’re going down like that?” asked Isabela, sitting at a delicately carved vanity table placed in the corner of the room; her hair was twisted up with an artless sort of grace Amelle felt quite certain she’d never be able to imitate, even if she didn’t wear her hair so short.  A richly enameled vanity case—a gift from an Antivan lover, or so Isabela had said—sat open before her and even now a smudge of rouge darkened her fingertips, inches away from her cheek.

“I… yes?  I know the dress is a little—”

“The dress is fine, kitten.  But _you_ look like death half warmed over.”

“And you have _such_ a way with compliments.”  

“Sit.”

“I’m s—”

“Sit.”

With no small bit of trepidation, and eyeing Isabela’s enameled case (and all the items within) the whole while, Amelle sat.

#

The prospect of sleep had appealed to Fenris far more than a bath, and so, upon reaching his room, he took a short nap before sending down a request for a basin of hot water, with plans to wash up—at least perfunctorily—prior to his meal.  He had no idea what plans Hawke or the others had made, but it hardly mattered—he did not assume himself to be included in them.  As such, his plans were to dine and return to his room to sleep; there likely would not be another feather bed until Highever, and he planned to take advantage of the opportunity now presented to him.

Which only meant it was all the more surprising when the knock at his door came the very moment he turned away from the basin of lukewarm, dingy water and shrugged into a clean shirt—three sharp raps that made Fenris go perfectly still.  He was not expecting anyone, not even an attendant to retrieve the basin of dirty water.  

How many times had he been in this very position?  How many times had he been faced with no choice but to abandon a soft bed in favor of flight?

Too many times.

“A moment,” he said just loudly enough to be heard, buttoning his shirt and moving silently to his bedside.  His belongings lay in a jumble, but at one end of that tangle was his gunbelt.  With slow, purposeful movements, he pulled the revolver free from one holster and approached the door, his thumb resting on the hammer.

“It’s me, Fenris.”  There was a slightly awkward pause.  “Amelle Hawke,” the voice added, somewhat sheepishly.  With a sigh that was more than part relief, Fenris took his thumb from the hammer and opened the door.

When he did so, it was to discover Hawke on the other side, looking… nothing at all like she had earlier.  When he’d aired his frustration at her on the stairwell, she’d stared up at him, whatever shock or surprise his outburst may have brought doing nothing to temper her pale, drawn, grime-smudged features, pinched with equal parts discomfort and worry.  Now, though, she looked… as she _ought_ to have looked; the color was returned to her cheeks, a jeweled pin in her damp, dark hair, shining under the flickering lanterns in the hall.  The pale yellow dress she wore… suited her; its neckline revealed the column of her throat, the delicate indent of her clavicle.  She wore no other adornment than the pin in her hair, but neither did she require one.  

It was at that point Fenris wondered when exactly he’d started to pay particular attention to the line of Hawke’s throat or the smoothness of her skin, and why he was doing so _now_.

Hawke looked down at the gun in his hand, arching an eyebrow at it.  “Not the welcome I was _expecting,_ I’ll admit.”

He shrugged a shoulder, turning away and replacing the gun in its holster before fastening the belt about his waist.  “I was not expecting a visitor,” he explained as he finished buttoning his shirt to the neck.  He shrugged into the green waistcoat he’d brought—the only waistcoat he’d brought—then wound a cravat around his neck and tied it.  “Is there something you require?” 

She wound her purse’s drawstring around her index finger.  “You… _were_ going to eat, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” he answered evenly, fingers deftly buttoning the vest.

“I… thought you might like to join us.”  She stepped over the threshold into his room, hands clasped in front of her.  A small tasseled purse dangled from one wrist.  “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, or if you’ve got… other plans?  I don’t want you to feel oblig—”

“I have no other plans,” he answered, turning to face Hawke once again.  

“Good.”  Her answering smile was hesitant but genuine, and the quality of it made Fenris wonder if Hawke yet knew what awaited her downstairs in the dining area. He began to think it unlikely as she went on to say, “Varric secured us a table already; they’ll be downstairs…”  But then her smile dimmed into bemusement.  “Fenris?  Is… something wrong?”

Fenris hadn’t realized his own expression had shifted to betray his thoughts and he blinked.  

“It is… nothing,” he finally replied, moving about the room and securing his few belongings before sliding the heavy room key into his waistcoat’s inner pocket where its weight hung heavily, cool even through the material of his shirt.  _Nothing._   No, that wasn’t entirely true.  The less-than-truth weighed unpleasantly on his tongue.

“You’re sure it’s nothing?”

Frowning, he shrugged into his jacket and turned to face Hawke again.  “It is only… you were discomfited earlier by the—”

“Hotel staff,” she finished for him with a grimace, her voice low as she stole a glance over her shoulder to the door, still hanging open.  “Still am, if we’re to be honest, but… as we discussed it’s better if I act like an adult about it.”

It was then he decided to tell her what he’d seen, but when Fenris explained to her the number of Tranquil waiters he’d spotted in the hotel dining room, Hawke’s expression slid briefly to one of dismay before hardening into resolve.

“I see.” Hawke gnawed her lip a moment, then squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, meeting his gaze squarely.  “Well.  I’m glad you told me, in any case.”  She sent him a tight, determined smile as they moved into the hallway together and turned their steps toward the stairway.  “Thank you, Fenris.”

“You… are welcome, Hawke.”

#

Dinner turned out to be a blessedly uneventful affair.

Though Hawke had appeared momentarily unnerved at the Tranquil servers in the dining area, Fenris watched as, one by one, she tamped down whatever fears or worries might have been plaguing her, putting up a wall of polite charm as her defense.  The change reminded him heavily of their first meeting, when she had charmed an audience with showmanship and charisma, but he now was able to identify the differentiation for the defense mechanism it was.  

It was, after all, a very convincing act, when she had time to prepare it.

All the same, Fenris noted she ate little more than half her perfectly-prepared meal, despite the fact that the fare had been remarkable, the menu boasting trout, which Isabela claimed divine—Fenris left her to that particular opinion—lamb and roasted game and any number of exotic, chilled desserts, the likes of which Fenris hadn’t seen since leaving the Imperium.  Hawke, however, declined dessert, and much of her meal had been pushed around on her plate.  Wine, however, she’d had plenty of, evidenced by the deeper flush at her cheeks. 

“Seems to me,” Varric said, leaning back in his chair, looking entirely satisfied by both the quantity and quality of food, “it’s time to hunt down a little entertainment in this town.”

“Mmm,” agreed Isabela, holding up her glass of port, admiring the way the scant remaining drops of liquor gleamed in the lamplight before she tipped the glass against her lips, draining it.  “Nothing like a good meal to put one in the mood for a game of cards.”

“Isabela, watching paint dry would put you in the mood for a card game,” Hawke observed dryly.

“Of course it would,” she retorted with a laugh. “Watching paint dry is _boring._ ”

Before Hawke could toss back a rejoinder, Varric tilted his head, regarding her, and asked, “What about you, Hawke?”

She wrinkled her nose, considering.  “I thought I’d just go back upstairs and—”

“Kitten,” Isabela drawled, the barest hint of a warning injected into her tone.

Hawke made a face.  “Or maybe I’ll just go for a little walk,” she said with false brightness. “Get some air.”

“And then join us at cards,” prompted Isabela.  Hawke did not look convinced.

Throwing Isabela a shrewd look, Varric said, “You just want her to join in because she can’t cheat worth a damn when she’s had a few.”  He nodded at Hawke, adding, “A walk’s probably a good idea.”  And then the dwarf settled back in his chair, telegraphing a very meaningful look Fenris’ way.

The gesture, he found, grated slightly, and Fenris wasn’t sure whether it was that the dwarf was giving him such an eloquent look at all, or if it had more to do with the fact he’d already considered how unwise it would have been for Hawke to go wandering alone about Kinloch Hold.  He had no idea how much time had elapsed since her last tincture dosage, and though her hands weren’t the least bit unsteady, the wine had rendered her speech slower and more cautious.  Slow enough and cautious enough he’d already given thought to accompanying her.

“I found my room rather close,” he said, pointedly ignoring Varric’s gaze.  “Perhaps some fresh air would help.”

Hawke blinked owlishly at him.  “You… want to go for a walk?”

Five minutes ago, perhaps, he did not.  But now the idea seemed less distasteful than he’d originally thought.  “It would do, if nothing else, to check on the horses.”

“All right,” she replied slowly, eyes narrowing at him as if searching for falsehoods.  Before he could wonder what she saw, what she found when she looked so very closely, Hawke smiled and pushed to her feet, pausing only to reach into the sugar bowl set at the center of the table, plucking up a handful of sugar cubes and dropping them into her purse.

After settling the bill, they exited through the hotel’s wide double doors, which opened out onto a street every bit as busy in the evening as it had been in the afternoon. Gas lamps lit the street with dancing light, illuminating men and women walking past, arm in arm; a trio of laughing young women stood in front of the theater where The Denerim Players were putting on a production of _Maferath_.  A fourth joined them, hurrying down the street, hands hitched in her skirts; they greeted her and disappeared into the theatre together.  

“While you were making yourself dainty,” Varric said, addressing Hawke and Isabela, “I took a stroll around town myself.  From what I hear, if there’s a game of Wicked Grace going on in this town, it’ll be at The Spoiled Princess.”  He jerked a thumb to the right and looked up at Isabela.  “You up for seeing how they do gambling in this town?”

Isabela snorted.  “I’m up for seeing how they do _losing_ in this town.”

Varric grinned, then gave a shrug.  “Same difference.”  And, with nothing more than a backwards wave, they departed, and Fenris was suddenly certain if there was not already a game of Wicked Grace in progress, there soon would be.

Beside him, Hawke let out a soft snort of laughter.  He sent her a sidelong glance.  “Do you wish to join them?”

“Another time, maybe.”  She turned, tipping her head, indicating which way the stables were.  “Another town, definitely.  Shall we?”

He nodded and they strode off in the opposite direction, walking the short distance to the stables.  The stablemaster was gone for the night, the lead groom, a young man of no more than eighteen, with a thatch of shockingly red hair explained, but there was no problem if they wanted to check up on their animals.  He smiled at them both, though his smile lingered on Hawke several seconds longer.

Before Fenris could wonder if she were even aware of the attention, Hawke ducked her head demurely, offering the young man a smile of her own.

“Thank you so much,” she said, fingers plucking at the string on her purse.  “I’m sure he’s in capable hands.  It’s just I get so _worried_ about him in a strange place overnight.”

“Been watching over him like he’s my own, miss,” the groom said, and even in the dim light there was no mistaking his flush.

“I’m sure you have…?” she answered sweetly, her voice canting upward inquisitively.

The groom pulled off his cap.  “Jonah, miss.  I-it’s… Jonah.  I…” he cleared his throat, chest puffing out with pride.  “I watch the horses on the overnight, while the stablemaster’s off.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Jonah,” replied Hawke, dimpling at the groom.  “So it’s likely you we’ll be seeing in the morning, then?  We’re only stopping over for the night.”  At his confusion—and dismay, Fenris noted—Hawke added quickly, “But it’s really just a lovely little town.”  She dipped her head, adding with a shyness Fenris had never heard from her before, “It’s such a shame we can’t stay longer.”

The young man beamed while Fenris managed to avoid rolling his eyes, though it took a supreme effort to do so.  “We’re very proud of it, miss.”

Fenris cleared his throat.  “You wished to check the horses,” he reminded Hawke, unable to completely smother the groundless irritation flaring beneath his breast.  Hawke nodded, offering a quick, apologetic smile to the groom, and they made their way down a corridor of stalls, enough to board about twenty horses at a time.  More than half the stalls were filled, and it was a short search before they found Agrippa and Falcon, both chewing sedately on hay.

“He was a little young for you,” Fenris observed in a dry undertone as Hawke reached into her purse for the sugar cubes.  Falcon perked up immediately, and Agrippa craned her neck to see what her neighbor was nickering about.

Hawke did not blush, or look abashed in any way.  She just chuckled softly, shaking her head as Falcon licked three sugar cubes from her open palm.  She then offered sugar cubes to Agrippa, who took them as avidly as Falcon had.  “More flies with honey, Fenris,” she explained softly.  “If we need to get out early tomorrow, Jonah will likely be far more willing to oblige us.”

“Do you anticipate needing an early departure?”

She sighed, withdrawing more sugar cubes and offering some first to Falcon and next to Agrippa.  “Anticipate?  No.”  She frowned at her hand, slick with horse spittle and smears of mostly-chewed hay, and Fenris pulled a handkerchief free from an inner pocket, handing it to her.  Hawke’s fingertips grazed his as she took the cloth, and she smiled her thanks as she wiped her palm clean—a softer, slightly self-deprecating, and far more genuine thing than any of the charms she’d aimed at the groom, he realized.  “Call it a contingency plan.”  

He watched Hawke fold the handkerchief, carefully tucking away the green streaks of horse saliva before handing it back to him, thinking all the while of contingency plans and his intimate understanding of their necessity.  

“There now.  We’ve checked on the horses and they appear to be doing all right. Shall we check on our compatriots?” she asked as he pushed the white—less so, now—cloth back into a pocket.  “Three coppers says they’ve got a game of no fewer than six going.”

“You’re so certain?” Fenris asked, but did not argue as they turned their steps in search of The Spoiled Princess.

Hawke laughed and shot him an amused sidelong glance.  “You’re only saying that because you don’t know Isabela like I do.  Trust me, stronger men than templars have succumbed to her charms.”

It was a short walk to the saloon, the wind off the lake turning the night air chilly.  The light blazing from The Spoiled Princess’ front window, however, looked bright enough to ward off the bitterest cold.  Hawke peered in through the front window, where she saw Varric and Isabela, deeply embroiled in what looked like a game of diamondback, surrounded by four men and three women, at least five of which were templars, if the badges upon their chests were anything to go by.  The pile in the center of the table was small, but Fenris knew the game well enough to know the pile of winnings would be at least five times what it was by the time the game concluded.

 “Do you play cards at all?” Hawke asked, watching the game with avid, narrowed eyes.  Fenris followed her gaze; one of the templars held a worthless hand, and yet tossed coins onto the pile as if he’d already won it.  She made a little derisive sound, deep in her throat.

“I play enough to know he will not last an hour playing like that.”

She tipped her head, yellow lamplight catching her eyes as she sent him a conspirator’s grin.  “Highever, then.  We’ll find a game there and give those two a little competition.  What do you say?”

Fenris looked once more through the front window, his musings fading for the moment beneath the prospect of a journey measured not by how many hunters he’d had to evade, but marked rather by towns and people and card games.  

“I… believe I look forward to it.”  


	12. Chapter 12

Dawn came as dawn does, creeping slowly over the horizon, a sliver of light expanding, stretching into a blinding, fiery circle, bathing everything below it in light punctuated only by long shadows that would grow shorter as the day wore on.  Of them all, Isabela was the least pleased about being awake and dressed at such an hour, but a successful night around the card table had made her purse heavier, which in turn made her less annoyed than she might otherwise have been under the same circumstances.  Varric greeted the morning as if the evening had been a long one, but Amelle suspected his winnings were no less impressive than Isabela’s, which probably explained why he was so very sanguine about the hour.  Fenris, though quiet (and she was accustomed to that), was as awake and alert as she’d ever seen him.

She also didn’t think she imagined the flicker of annoyance crossing Fenris’ face when it turned out Jonah had been as good as his word: an early departure looked as if it wasn’t going to be a difficulty at all.  

The horses had been fed, watered, groomed to within an inch of their lives, and tacked up by the time they made it down to the stables.  With the help of two other grooms—both of whom appeared incredibly taken with Isabela—the packs and bedrolls were strapped into place, and with that morning’s magebane dose already an hour into Amelle’s system, all she needed was a leg up onto Falcon and they could be on their way, leaving Kinloch Hold a distant memory behind them.

Then the deep, metallic clang of a bell shattered the morning peace, sharply enough that Agrippa and Falcon pawed the ground nervously while Tango pranced to the side.  Only Cedric lowered his head to catch a tangle of stray hay between his teeth, chewing it sedately.  The sound had startled them all, humans included, but it was Jonah who looked truly alarmed at the noise.  

“What is that?” Amelle asked as Isabela groaned, “And how much longer are they going to _ring_ it?”

Shaking his head as if the ringing bell were a figment he could drive off, Jonah turned quick steps toward the front of the stable; Amelle followed in time to see a cluster of men—templars, by their badges—come up the main street before breaking off into groups of two and three and dispersing into the town.  

“What is it?” Amelle breathed again.  She glanced over her shoulder to find Fenris standing behind her, watching the main street, his expression inscrutable.

“It’s the alarm,” explained Jonah.  “It means someone’s broken out of the Circle.”

“Someone?” echoed Amelle, her stomach dropping suddenly, violently, somewhere down to the vicinity of her toes.

“A mage, miss.”

A mage.  A mage had—had _broken out_ of the Circle.  

Granted, nobody broke out of places they didn’t mind being.  Nobody broke out of places they were allowed to leave.  No matter how useful mages were to Kinloch Hold, no matter whether they were paid a stipend for their work or not, they were still human beings who’d been taken away from their homes. And something about this development left Amelle feeling vaguely justified in her unease.

“We have to get out of here,” Amelle breathed, struggling to speak past the sudden lump in her throat, one she was almost certain was her pounding heart.  “So we… so we aren’t underfoot,” she added as an afterthought.

But Jonah had started shaking his head before she’d even finished speaking.  “That won’t do, miss.  The whole town goes on lockdown after a breakout, until either the mage is brought back, or the Templar Marshall calls it.”

“How long’s that usually take?” asked Varric.

“Five days was the longest—no one in or out—and they never found that mage, either.”

“Five _days_?” Amelle echoed weakly, her mind spinning.  She could not stay here five days.  Beyond the obvious reasons, they had a ship to board in Highever—they _couldn’t_ stay.  _She_ couldn’t stay.

“Listen, sweet thing,” Isabela purred, and Amelle envied her the grip she evidently had on her control.  “Kitten’s little brother is a templar in Kirkwall.  She’s on her way up for a visit, hasn’t seen him in five years, poor thing, and their mother’s sick… you wouldn’t really make her wait five days all for one little mage on the run would you?”

Jonah looked very much like he wanted very badly to acquiesce to Isabela’s request.  “I’m sorry, miss, truly I am, but it’s not up to me.  Marshall Greagoir’s the one who announces the lockdown.  He’s the only one who can break it.”

Isabela’s words came out in a frustrated sigh. “Of course he is.”

“That was years ago anyway,” Jonah offered brightly, as if doing so might turn Isabela’s attention back his way.  It didn’t.  “Hasn’t been a breakout in Kinloch Hold in the better part of six months.  Least two years before that.”

Varric stepped away from Cedric, the shaggy pony giving a shake of his thick mane as he did.  “Why don’t I go see what I can find out?” Varric said.  “Ask the right questions, you never know what you’re gonna find.”  He started down the corridor of stalls, then stopped and looked over his shoulder at Isabela.  “You coming, Rivaini?”

“Why do I have to go?” she asked, her dark mood budging not an iota.

“Because,” Varric explained with long-suffering patience, “when templars won’t talk to me, there’s a damn good chance they’ll talk to you.  It’s your own fault for being prettier than me.”

“Without all the chest hair.”

“Hey, nobody’s perfect.”

They headed out of the stables, voices floating behind them until the sound of their footsteps and their conversation faded away.  Once they were gone, Amelle flopped down to sit on a bale of hay.

“Got any cards?” she asked, pushing forward a smile she knew was too weak, too forced to be genuine.  Amelle suspected Fenris saw and recognized that too, but rather than commenting, he reached into one of the worn saddlebags hanging along Agrippa’s flank, and pulled out an equally worn deck of cards.

Her expression must have evidenced surprise, for his own closed off suddenly, his tone defensive.

“Is it somehow unusual,” he asked coolly as he began shuffling the cards, “for a man to carry playing cards?”

“You have to admit, it’s a rather sociable past-time, and you, Fenris, do not strike me as terribly sociable,” she said, watching his long, white-lined fingers as he shuffled the cards—Fenris didn’t have half as much flair as Isabela, nor were his fingers quite so nimble as Varric’s, but he shuffled quickly and cleanly.  There was no room for artifice, no room for deception in the movements.  At that moment Amelle would have bet her entire lyrium stash that Fenris was an honest card player.  

Maker help him against Isabela.

“Sociable,” he echoed with a dry laugh. “You yourself have learned the importance of behaving in a manner counter to your own inclinations. Do you truly think no one else can have learned such a lesson earlier than you?”

Amelle looked up to find Fenris watching her, his expression arch.

All right, so maybe he wasn’t _quite_ so honest a card player.

“Just deal, all right?” she retorted with a huff.

Fenris dealt the cards between them; Amelle’s attention was not, however, entirely on their game.  She kept one ear cocked, straining to hear Isabela and Varric’s approach.  With every minute that passed, she ordered and reordered her cards, losing hand after hand and glad she hadn’t done anything completely idiotic, like offering to play for money.  

Fenris was a better bluffer than she’d given him initial credit for being, though she was still sure he was—more or less—an honest hand at cards.  She wondered, suddenly, what this meant for her.  Bluffing around a card table was one thing, but what if it came down to bluffing a bigger game?  One word from him could lead to her incarceration, magebane or no, and they were currently in a town that was literally _crawling_ with templar deputies.  She glanced up from her hand to find Fenris watching her closely, eyes narrowed; she hoped he was just looking for tells.

As it turned out, Amelle didn’t have a chance to ponder the matter any further than she had already.  Heavy booted steps tromped into the stable, each footfall a dull, hollow echo against the wood. Jonah paled as he leapt to his feet and hurried off to meet the owners of such heavy footsteps.  Amelle had a feeling she already knew.

“Morning, Jonah—sorry about the inconvenience.  Just a cursory search of the stalls and we’ll be out of your hair.”

“The stablemaster isn’t—”

“Eli’s on his way.  Spoke with him first.”  The voice sounded almost amused.  “Said he wanted us to check the stalls and go on our damned way.  Don’t suppose you know of any mages hiding in here?”

Amelle’s grip on her cards tightened, bending them beneath her thumbs.

“No, sers,” the stablehand answered earnestly. “A mage wouldn’t find a good spot to hide in here.  Not with all the—”

“Horses,” the templar finished for him.  “Eli said the same thing.”  A mighty put-upon sigh followed.  “All the same, the Marshall wants us to leave no stone unturned, no stall unchecked.  We’ll make it quick and try not to unsettle the horses too much.  Eli’s got a mean left hook when he’s feeling ornery—meaner when he thinks someone’s been fussing with the animals.”

“Yes, sers.”

Amelle held her breath as the footsteps drew nearer.

“Anything unusual going on this morning?” the second voice asked.

“We’ve got a few horses saddled up already,” Jonah explained as he led the templars down the lone line of stalls.  He raised his voice over the long squeals of protesting hinges as stall doors were opened and closed. “Just folks passing through.”  

The rustle of hay followed and Amelle tried to remember to breathe.

“Good looking animals,” the first voice said as they passed the horses in their cross-ties.  “Hopefully this won’t take long and they can head out on their way.”

The templars came around the corner then, passing the little niche where she and Fenris sat upon the haybale, cards in hand.

Amelle strove to keep her features neutral.  Harmless, even.  They were looking for a specific mage, and she wasn’t it.  What would a person who had no reason whatsoever to worry about a templar presence _do_ in a situation like this one?  Keep her eyes on her cards?  Bid them good morning?  Swoon and faint at the thought of one of those wretched mages being on the loose?

The two deputies stopped to take note of their card game.  It was a small miracle Amelle’s heart hadn’t thundered its way out of her chest.

“Miss,” one of them said in greeting.

Amelle looked up, a bland, perfectly pleasant smile in place.  Templars, two of them, with badges on their chests and gunbelts slung on their hips, cavalry swords hanging to one side, gently curved and maliciously sharp.  She would bid them a good morning, act appropriately distraught about the state of affairs and—

The two templars exchanged a look.  One of them glanced at a piece of paper in his hand and nodded while the other wore an expression of long-suffering.

“Come with us, please,” said Long-Suffering.

_What?_

“What?” Amelle blurted, darting a furtive glance at Fenris, who looked as baffled as she _felt._  

But the deputies were already reaching for her arms and as Amelle darted back, cards falling from nerveless fingers, she caught a glimpse of the paper in the second templar’s hand.  

It was a daguerreotype of a woman, and it looked _just like her._

Amelle Hawke well and truly _hated_ Kinloch Hold.

“I believe you’ve made some sort of mistake,” Fenris said, and _Maker_ , she envied him his calm.

“Did you intend to accompany this woman out of Kinloch Hold?” asked Daguerreotype. 

“I did,” Fenris replied evenly as Long-Suffering hauled Amelle to her feet, pulling the leather satchel that hung across her chest over her head and handing it over to Daguerreotype.  “As I have been traveling in her company since Lothering and will continue on so until Kirkwall.”

Long-Suffering looked at Jonah, who was staring at the unfolding scene, wide-eyed.  “Sers, this— this woman was in the stables last night.  I don’t— I don’t see how…”

But the deputy only shook his head and sent Amelle a disapproving glare.  “Marshall’s not going to like a mage trying to control anyone’s minds.”

“What— _what?_ ” Amelle sputtered, wishing she could find some other words that were slightly more eloquent.  “I haven’t—I’m not _controlling_ anyone!”  Mind control was definite blood magic territory, and if her father had taught her anything, it was that the very _last thing_ a spirit healer needed to get herself tangled up in was blood magic.  Spirit healing was dangerous enough on its own without involving darker forces.  The sheer insinuation she was the type of person _to_ control the mind of another was enough to spark some very real indignation.

Daguerreotype peered into her satchel and shook his head.  “Looks like potions to me.”

“Oh, Maker’s _breath,_ those are ointments for the horses!” she shouted.  “Elfroot potion!  You don’t need to be a mage to make _potions!_   I’m a healer, for Andraste’s sake!”

There was still a very quiet, very rational place in her brain that pointed out to her shouting at templars might not have been the best idea.  It was also the place where she marveled at the fact that she was shouting in the first place; her indignation was genuine, and she had not uttered one untruth so far this morning, for all the good it was doing her.  It also happened to be where a single and completely terrifying question spawned:

 _What if the magebane_ didn’t _hide her from the templars?_

They were going on appearance right now, and neither Long-Suffering nor Daguerreotype had made any attempt to sense her magic, but _what if they did?_   What then?

“A healer who happens to look a great deal like the Circle’s missing mage,” Long-Suffering told her, his grip like iron on her arms.  “Come along, now.”

As they towed her away, her feet stumbling as she tried to resist the fingers scything into her arms Amelle shot one terrified glance over her shoulder to find Fenris on his feet and following them, his face set like stone.  

“The woman in that picture _isn’t me_ ,” she insisted.  “I won’t deny there’s a resemblance, but I just arrived in town last night.  My friends and I are passing through to Kirkwall.  My brother’s a templar there—” this news, at least, caused a stutter in Long-Suffering’s stride “—he’s one of Marshall Stannard’s deputies.  Maker’s breath, if I were an escaped mage, would I be headed that way?”

“Still going to have to take you to Marshall Greagoir,” Long-Suffering told her.

If anyone could, the Marshall would be able to sense her magic past the magebane.  If he did not, then the tincture worked as well as she could have hoped. This was the one test she’d hoped to avoid.

The man in question, as it turned out, was to be found in the gazebo gracing the town square; deep in conference with three more deputies, his head came up at the sound of Amelle’s protests.  Rather than waiting for Long-Suffering and Daguerreotype to drag her all the way to the gazebo, he left his post and met them halfway.

Templar Marshall Greagoir was, if nothing else, very tall.  Very tall and very broad, with hair the color of iron and eyes like flinty steel.  He was also looking down at Amelle as if she were a particularly perplexing puzzle piece.  This was worlds better than him looking at her as if she were an escaped mage, so Amelle snapped her mouth shut and waited.

“We’ve found her, ser.”

“Maker’s _blood,_ ” Amelle groaned. “No, they _didn’t._ ”

Greagoir arched an eyebrow at her interjection, narrowing his eyes slightly.  “Is that so?”

Daguerreotype handed over Amelle’s satchel to Greagoir.  “We found these on her.  Potions, ser.”

Looking thoughtful, Greagoir pulled one of the vials free and unstoppered it, smelling the neck of the bottle curiously.  “This is elfroot potion, Deputy Baker.”

The templar previously known as Daguerreotype blinked.  “Yes, ser?”

“You could buy this yourself at any apothecary shop.”  He began rifling through the other potions and ointments in the bag, peering at brightly colored liquids, sniffing the contents of her jars and bottles until he was satisfied.  “There is no contraband on this young miss’ person.”

Sensing—and hoping—the Marshall was a man of sense, Amelle said, “Ser, my friends and I arrived in Kinloch Hold last night.” _Please don’t sense my magic. Please don’t sense my magic. Please don’t sense my magic._   “Ask anyone—I spoke with Jonah at the stables last night and let him know we were considering an early departure.  The clerk—the clerk at the hotel!  She’d remember me, she—or the bathing attendant would—I’m sure of it.”  

The longer she spoke, the easier it was to breathe, and instead of growing more frantic, her pulse—though it was still galloping like Falcon with a wild hair—was gradually coming back under her control.    She took another breath and plunged on.  “I haven’t _controlled_ anyone’s mind, and if I look anything at all like the woman in that picture, it is nothing but pure dumb luck, I assure you.”

“Which of you has this daguerreotype?”

“I do, ser,” Baker said, stepping forward, extending the hand that still held the young woman’s likeness.  Greagoir took it and stared hard at the image.

“This is, you will agree, an uncanny resemblance.”

“That is all it is,” came Fenris’ voice from behind her, a sound so welcome she could have wept.

One of the marshall’s thick eyebrows arched.  “And you are?”

“I am one of this woman’s traveling companions and have been since Lothering.”  He paused, brows twitching.  “Before that, if I am to be accurate.  We first crossed paths in Ostagar.”

Greagoir shot his deputies a particularly eloquent _look._   “I assume you’ve got something to say for yourself, Baker?”  He turned flinty eyes on Long-Suffering.  “And you, Callhoun?”

Callhoun cleared his throat and shifted his weight.  The grips on Amelle’s arms were not quite so bruising as they’d been earlier.  “We thought, ser.  We thought she might have—”

“They accused me of controlling men’s minds, Marshall.”

“Ah, yes,” Greagoir intoned. “The sensible conclusion.”  He turned his attention back to his two deputies.  “Did neither of you consider sensing magic on this young woman?”

It became evident neither Baker nor Callhoun had considered that particular option by the way they shamefacedly released their grip on her arms.

“She is no mage.”

Relief, sweet and cool and _perfect_ coursed down her spine and Amelle drew a deep breath in, letting it out slowly.  _She is no mage._   If there were four more beautiful words ever spoken, she didn’t know them.  Four words that were entirely worth every failed test.

Greagoir examined Amelle’s satchel a moment before handing it back.  “The buckle is bent.  I suspect one of my deputies damaged it in his… haste.  You have my apologies, and I’m sure if you take it to the blacksmith, he will be able to fix it for—”

Screams, ragged and rage-filled, cut through the air, and once again the Marshall lifted his head.  At this distance he reminded Amelle of a dog on the hunt.  She clutched the straps of her satchel and watched him intercept three templars who had in their custody another young woman—a young woman roughly her build, with hair as short but far redder than hers, and in a face that was fuller and softer than Amelle’s own were eyes so sharply blue they made the sky look dull in comparison.  The sleeves of her dress smoldered as she thrashed and fought and screamed.

Nausea began to uncoil in the pit of Amelle’s stomach.  She was—and she _knew it_ —just as much a mage as this woman, and yet somehow she’d managed to avoid the templars’ notice—had, as point of fact, just avoided notice.  Now, though, her heart clutched with guilt as she watched raw, naked fear twist and contort the woman’s features.

Greagoir glanced briefly at the daguerreotype he still held, sparing a longer look at the woman’s sleeves.  Amelle watched as the end of a dangling thread glowed brightly before falling from her cuff and floating to the ground, nothing more than ash.  When she looked up from where the blackened strand had finally landed, she found the mage’s startlingly blue eyes focused on her.  Where Amelle had seen a resemblance in the picture of the woman, she saw no such similarity when placed face to face with her.

Or perhaps fear had transformed her so completely.

Suddenly those blue eyes narrowed.  “It isn’t _me_ you want!” she cried, fighting against the templars holding her.  “It’s _her._   She’s the mage!  I’m not— _I’m not!_   Can’t you tell?  It’s her!” she yelled, her voice going shriller and shriller, until it was nearly a shriek.  “It’s her!” she said again.  _“It’s her, not me!  Can’t you tell?_ ”

Amelle took a step back, fingers gripping the leather satchel straps so tightly her knuckles ached.  She knew, intellectually, that if a templar couldn’t sense her magic under the magebane, then it was highly unlikely another mage could.  She took another step when she backed into a chest.  A white-lined hand came to her shoulder, steadying her.

_“Can’t you tell?”_

Baker drew back, one hand on his sword, the other on his pistol while Greagoir and Callhoun—his expression nothing even close to long-suffering now—stepped forward, white light gathering about their hands, extending up their arms, and even though Amelle’s magic was dormant and silent, she still felt the pull of holy energy charge the air.  She had never had any cause to witness a smite in person, and yet she had every reason to believe that was precisely what both men were preparing.

From the corner of her eye, Amelle saw Varric and Isabela come skidding around a corner.  Isabela’s eyes went wide and her lips formed an easily read obscenity.  

Amelle jerked her gaze back to the mage and templars, and wished she hadn’t.

While it was quite true she’d never seen a templar deliver a holy smite, and had no desire whatsoever to witness it, it was also true Amelle had never witnessed another mage become an abomination.

Everything happened too fast.  Too fast.

There came a glow from the woman’s skin, if “glow” could be the right word.  The light pulsing from her skin was dark, and the wrongness of the sight was like discordant chords made manifest—light wasn’t dark, couldn’t be dark, and yet the power emanating from her skin came off in waves of black and purple.  The mage’s face began to stretch, her features distorting, her skin bubbling and shuddering and finally darkening to grey; her hair, so deeply red, darkened and went lank across a forehead too wide, too sloping.  Her blue eyes bulged and rolled in her head as her body thickened and grew until the thing it became— _abomination_ —towered over them all.  

It twisted with a violent lurch, and the templars that had been gripping the mage’s arms were sent sailing through the air in opposite directions, both landing on the ground with a sick thud.  One man got up, shakily.  The other did not.  He lay motionless in the street, his head twisted at an impossible angle.

Greagoir and Callhoun’s smites hadn’t yet finished gathering, so rapid was the mage’s transformation.  Greagoir let the light flare off into nothing, and freed his revolver from its holster instead, taking aim and firing, bullets not so much piercing the abomination’s hide, but merely lodging in it.  Amelle had heard it said templars favored lead bullets infused with magebane, but if Greagoir’s bullets had been so treated, they were not affecting the abomination.

Perhaps because it was no longer a mage.

Callhoun, however, his brow creased in determination, held his ground.  The light had reached as high as his shoulders and was building, growing brighter, brighter, _brighter—_

Unaffected by Greagoir’s unerring shots, the abomination turned with a screech, and with one swipe of its claws, the light of Callhoun’s smite went suddenly dark as his head flung back, blood spurting forth from his throat.  The force of the strike sent him backward, where he landed hard on the ground, eyes staring upward, mouth gaping open, dark blood pooling thickly in the grit of the street.

She could not tear her eyes from the horrible, lurching _thing_ that had once been a woman.

The thing that had once been a _mage._

#

Fenris had known this could not end well.  The fact that the altercation had turned even worse than his expectations only left him grimly unsurprised.  The sound of gunfire had brought a number of templars running, but a majority, he surmised, had likely been sent beyond the town’s limits to search for the escaped mage.

From the corner of his eye, he spied Varric and Isabela; the former cradled his crossbow in his hands while the latter bore a shining dagger in either fist.  Hawke’s staff, he knew, was wrapped in oilcloth and hidden amongst her things.  Even if it hadn’t been, it would not have been a wise weapon to bear.  But before he could say a word she moved past him, running towards where the dead templar lay, his neck broken, and freed the revolver from his belt.

Unfortunately, bullets and crossbow bolts appeared to be having very little effect.  They needed to get in _closer._ Whipping around, he looked back at Amelle, standing over the fallen templar, the .45 settled in both hands.  She wasn’t firing, though; Hawke was staring at the monstrosity, eyes narrowed.  

She saw the same thing he did.

The ring of a sword being drawn from a scabbard caught Fenris’ ear and when he looked back at the abomination, it was to find the Templar Marshall with his sword drawn, while Baker and the other men distracted the beast with gunfire.

One man alone could not manage such a task.  

“Hawke!” he shouted, twisting back to face her.  She lifted her eyes from the weapon’s sight and cocked an inquisitive eyebrow.  _“Sword!_ ”

Hawke did not argue.  She did not question.  She did, however, look at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses, which was… perhaps a possibility.  But she crouched down and pulled the cavalry sword free with a long, grinding hiss, placing it on the ground and with a sharp push she sent it skittering his way.  He bent, snatching the weapon up by the grip; it was nowhere near as long as he’d have preferred, and with such a length to work with he would have to get in close to the creature indeed, but they were all of them running short on options.  

Sword in hand, Fenris sprinted forward to join Greagoir—Baker and several more templars had been rent by the creatures claws and lay, dead or near it, bleeding in the street.

And they with a healer who could not reveal the truest part of herself.

“Well, Broody,” Isabela’s voice said suddenly from his side.  “This is how it is when your horse isn’t collapsed on top of you?”  She flashed a smile as bright as her daggers.  “Interesting.”  And then, with a wink, she danced in close to the abomination, her blades sinking so deeply into the abomination’s thick hide that black fluid oozed forth from the wounds.  The stench of it was beyond belief and the abomination’s furious scream tore at his ears, but it was _wounded._

That it was wounded also meant it was _angry._ Another violent shriek seared the air as the abomination lunged forward, its mouth gaping open to reveal line after endless line of knife-sharp teeth, its claws slashing—Isabela swore as those claws caught her arm, tearing the sleeve of her shirt and making the material blossom with blood—his own borrowed sword sunk deeply into the thick hide, pulling forth even more screams as black ooze slid from the wounds, leaving dark trails down the creature’s skin.  Bile burned his throat at the stink of it.

Then the air shifted and a wave of magic burst forth that was so wrong, so twisted, so hideous that it made the lyrium in his skin flare in defense.  Isabela angled herself out of the way at the last, blood still dripping from her arm, but the blast hit Fenris and Greagoir unerringly, sending them both soaring back.  He landed with such force that the air was knocked from his lungs, and had only pushed himself up to one knee when the monstrosity lurched forward, talons clicking in anticipation, its mouth wide as thick saliva dripped from its maw.  His hand tightened on the sword, and though he struggled to draw in a breath, Fenris’ muscles coiled in anticipation as the abomination loomed closer—

And then it reeled back, its screech now nearly an octave higher—there was still rage in it, he thought, but there was something else too, something…

When Fenris looked up, it was to find splinters of glass embedded in the abomination’s face, liquid streaming into its eyes.

A glance back revealed Hawke, balancing precariously on the gazebo’s balustrade, one arm wrapped around a beam for balance—in that hand the borrowed revolver hung from her fingers, its chamber likely empty, given Hawke’s current brand of ammunition: in her other hand she held a vial of jewel-purple liquid.  With a grunt, she flung it, and the bottle sailed end over end before exploding into shards and droplets against the abomination’s face, the liquid running once more into its eyes.  It shrieked again, clawing at its face.

She was _blinding_ it.

“Nice one!” Isabela cried, twisting close once again to the beast and plunging daggers into its skin.  Fenris and Greagoir followed suit, pushing in close and slashing the tough hide with tougher blades until foul blood coursed from the wounds, spilling thickly onto the ground, and so it went until the air shuddered again and the thing that had been a mage once, that had been _human_ once, was nothing more than foul pulp.

The resultant silence was nearly startling.  All at once it had ended—the gunfire, the screams, the cacophony of rotten magic shifting through the air.  The world was as silent, as peaceful as it had been before the bell had split the dawn into pieces.

“I sincerely hope, Marshall,” Hawke said shakily as she lowered herself back to the ground, the bottles within her satchel clinking gently as she moved.  “This means we’ll be free to move on now.”

Fenris rather imagined that was precisely what it meant.


	13. Chapter 13

They did not, as it happened, leave Kinloch Hold immediately.  A number of wounded templars required immediate aid, and while the Circle healers had been sent for, there were men whose lives hung in the balance.  As a result, Amelle, being both uninjured and knowing a thing or two about dealing with injuries, had been asked to see to the men most like to perish before the healers arrived.  Baker, in particular, looked pretty bad off.

So, while Varric, Fenris, and a freshly-bandaged Isabela aided the remaining templars as they saw to their dead, Amelle set bones and wrapped tourniquets and applied pressure to deeper wounds, trying to staunch blood that, for a time at least, resisted her efforts to slow its flow.  She did not think about them in terms of _templars,_ not now _._   Now they were men who’d been attacked by an abomination that had once been a mage, and _that_ was a tangle of thoughts she was better off not thinking about until much later, when they were miles away from Kinloch Hold.

Two healers, a dark-haired man and a blonde elven woman finally arrived from the Circle.  Marshall Greagoir spoke briefly with them both before sending them to tend the wounded. Wasting no time about it, the woman found where Baker lay, his bleeding staunched for the time being.  She knelt by his side, blue-white light flaring from her hands.  The other healer, the man, stepped gingerly around the injured, and came to kneel by the templar Amelle was tending just then.  Blood slicked her skin up to her elbows as she applied pressure to a particularly ugly gouge that ran diagonally from the man’s ribcage nearly all the way down to his pelvis.  

“That looks bad,” he murmured, peeling back one of the towels that had been brought over from the hotel. It was soaked red, and beneath was torn and ruined skin, flesh and muscle.  “Mm. Very bad.”

Amelle exhaled a mirthless laugh. “It was worse earlier, if you can believe it.  I had to put his intestines back.”

He huffed a short laugh of his own, equally humorless.  “I do believe it.”

When Amelle looked up, she met an angular face with eyes as green as her own, slightly magnified by a pair of wire spectacles.  Crinkles at the corners of his eyes told her he was perhaps a few years older than she was, but that he was not a stranger to smiles, which was not an altogether bad trait for a healer to have, in her opinion.

“Amell!” Greagoir called sharply from where he was helping a bandaged templar to his feet.  “Can you do anything for him?”

Amelle’s head jerked up to answer, when she realized belatedly that she’d never told the marshall her given name.  And then, just as surprisingly, the man kneeling across from her answered.

“Yes, Marshall,” he replied, hands flaring with sudden light.  “He ought to pull through fine.”

Sitting back on her heels, Amelle wiped her hands with a mostly clean towel.  “I’m sorry, but what… what did he call you?” she asked, lowering her voice.

“My name,” he replied, sounding amused as he glanced up briefly and then down at his work again.  “Daylen Amell, at your… rather bloody service.”

“Amell,” she murmured, cocking her head and narrowing her eyes.  “That… was my mother’s name before she married my father.  Leandra Amell.”

The healer, Daylen, glanced up and blinked twice.  “My mother was Revka.  She… had a cousin by the name Leandra.”

“Was?”

“I imagine it still is, if she’s still alive.”  His smile went slightly wry.  “Sadly, I don’t know.  Well.  Not that sadly.”  At her quizzical look, he shrugged.  “When you’re accused of being the downfall of an entire family line, it tends not to be the sort of thing that inspires one to feel particularly tender feelings towards one’s mother.”

“I’m… I’m very sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m mostly over it.”  He looked back down at the templar, whose injury was ever so slowly knitting itself back together.  “I… remember my parents talking about one of Mother’s cousins,” he murmured, just loudly enough for her to hear.  “She’d run off with a Fereldan some years before, and the family was still scandalized down to the ground over it.  His name was… Hawke, I think? I was very young at the time.” A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead as he looked up at her, scarcely lifting his head.  “I could be mistaken.”

“Maybe not that mistaken.”

Daylen kept looking at her, peering over his spectacles.  “That would explain it,” he said, so quietly that Amelle had to bend her head closer to hear him.  

“Explain what?”

“They said he was an apostate,” he murmured, somewhat pointedly.  The templar they were working on was well and truly unconscious, and everyone around them was far too busy to listen in on a conversation between two healers most likely discussing the odds of death over survival on the man they were tending.  All the same, Daylen kept his voice down.  “So I’d say it explains a great deal, except why I’m doing this and you’re not.”

The softly spoken words were like ice down her spine, and Amelle’s sharp inhale was far too close to a gasp.  “Wh-what?” she stammered, trying to sound like she didn’t know exactly what he was talking about, trying not to twist her fingers even more tightly into the towel she held.  How could he—how could he _possibly_ — 

“Forgive me,” he replied hastily.  “I… imagine whatever you’re doing is quite effective.”  When he looked up again to find her all but gaping at him, Daylen shook his head and concentrated anew on the gradually healing injury.  “You’ve nothing to fear from me.  The Circle is… for some, it’s true, the Circle chafes.  Not quite so for me, or Nadiah,” he said, indicating the elven woman, still hunched over Baker, “but… it chafes for some.”  He chanced another brief look up, narrowing now eerily familiar green eyes at her.  “As it would for you, I imagine.”

Amelle went very, very still.  There seemed no point in attempting to dissemble. The next question, however, was one she didn’t want to ask at all.  “How… do you know?”

“Spirit healer,” he said, nodding again at his hands.  “But I suspect you were already aware of that.”  He waited for her to say something, anything, but Amelle’s voice—and breath—were well and truly gone.  “I can… sense your spirit,” he explained.  “The one connected to you.  It’s… it’s a part of you, but not—it’s strange.”  His frown deepened in concentration.  “As if you’ve disconnected yourself from it—no, not disconnected.  You’ve… you’ve _distanced_ yourself from it.  I… I can tell.”

For as much as this made sense, the news was still surprising. “You can?”

“It’s like… hearing a song being sung through a closed door, or watching a sunrise through drawn curtains. I doubt anyone else could sense it, and definitely not at any sort of distance.  But you must admit our kind are a bit more… sensitive than most.”  The light around his hands went a little brighter.  “Don’t tell me how you managed it.  I… I’d rather not know, if it’s all the same to you. I imagine whatever it is you’ve done has crossed my mind at one time or another.  I will say that I would… caution you.  Whatever is is you’ve done—or are doing—is… our spirits are a part of us, in a way.  Not… not the same as what Analie—she was… she was the mage that… well. You… met Analie.  Anyway, I’m sorry.  You probably know this already.”

The admission that, no, she did not know a great deal about what she was beyond what her father had taught her stuck on her tongue.  Amelle swallowed it to loosen the words, but to no avail.  

What she did manage to say was, “Would you please— I… please, tell me.”

Something about her tone made the light at Daylen’s hands dim for a heartbeat of time, as if her words had surprised him.  “We are what we are because we have gained a spirit’s trust—you know that part, I’m sure.”  He spoke… hesitantly, as if he were afraid to insult her by sharing information too… _common_.  “But by distancing yourself so from your spirit, I…at the risk of sounding impertinent, I would caution you. Too much distance may make that connection more tenuous.  Be careful.”

Whether it was the words themselves, spoken so earnestly, or the fact that they came from another spirit healer, another mage she—possibly?—shared blood with, Amelle felt the weight of Daylen’s warning settle heavily on her heart.  Amelle had been so very _certain_ she’d thought through all the possible outcomes, and yet this one—so obvious and yet so detrimental—hadn’t occurred to her.  She swallowed against the dryness in her throat.  “I will.”

“I’m glad.”

They knelt in silence for several long moments as Amelle watched healing magic rippling up like heat from the wound, turning his words over in her head. Finally, she cleared her throat.  “You said… you said that mage’s name was Analie?”

“Analie Caddell.  She… yes, it was fair to say she chafed.  She came late—fifteen or so—and her family’d shipped her to Ferelden from Starkhaven.”

“Did you… know her?”

“Not well,” Daylen admitted.  “There were rumors she was planning to leave when she discovered the beau she’d been secretly writing to—not so secretly, as it turned out—was planning to marry another woman.  Beyond that, I only knew she came from Starkhaven, and that she vastly preferred it to Ferelden.”  His voice took on a faintly bitter strain, and he gave himself a little shake.  “Forgive me.  Again.  I oughtn’t speak ill of the dead.  All I meant to say was that some of us have significant difficulties adjusting, and some… don’t.  Nadiah over there got picked up when she was the only survivor after a bout of Antivan flu took out her whole alienage.  We apprenticed together with the apothecary for a time.”  Daylen shifted his hands against the templar’s stomach, changing the angle of his healing spell slightly.  

“And do you… chafe?”

He furrowed his brow and pulled his bloodied hands away from the templar’s abdomen, now pink with new skin.  “No,” he said, wiping his hands on the mostly-clean towel Amelle handed him.  “Not exactly.  But I think—well.  I’m inclined to ask you the same thing.”  

“Do… _I_?”

He nodded.  “It must be difficult, being alone as you are.  I confess I can’t imagine it.”

“I’m not alone,” she protested, and such protests were second nature to her now. She had people in her life, people who cared about her, who watched out for her as she did for them.  “I have—”

“Family.  Yes, of course. My apologies.  I only meant… you’ve been without a guide.  A mentor.  No one to answer your questions.”

“I… well, yes,” Amelle relented.  “I suppose I’ve had to learn a few things on my own.  My father was—he passed away some years ago, but he’d never been a particularly deft hand at healing.”

“I’m sorry.  It must have been lonely.”

It was, at times.  Especially now.  Amelle shrugged.  “Sometimes.  It was… less so when my sister was alive.  She… was a mage as well.”

Daylen looked up sharply, his expression caught somewhere between dread and curiosity.  “…Was?”

As Amelle explained what had happened to Bethany, from her own training on Falcon and Bethany’s on Annie, all the way to her fateful attempt to ride Marius, Daylen’s expression turned sorrowful as he gave condolences that were, by his own admission, years too late.  

“Listen,” he said after several awkward seconds ticked past, folding the towel he still held once across, then twice.  “I… you want to be on your way, and I don’t blame you for it.  But I… well.  I—I’d like the chance to… to _talk_ to you, if I could, before you go.  We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us here. You… clearly know what you’re doing, even without the, ah, _help—_ so if you wouldn’t mind staying a bit until after this mess is more under control…”

The moans of the injured raised like ghosts all around them.  Amelle gave a tiny nod.  There were still things she could do, even without the “help,” as Daylen had put it.  She wanted to help—for that matter, she wanted to be _more_ of a help, but if they needed extra hands, she’d provide them.  As long as they crossed the River Dane by sunset, they’d probably be able to make up the lost time along the way.  And it wasn’t as if her mana was due to return anytime _soon._

“I think we… I think we can spare some time.”  

“Good.  Once things are a little more… settled, come find me in the apothecary shop. We can speak more freely there.”

Amelle looked hard at her cousin, wondering if he was younger than she’d taken him for.  “I thought you said you apprenticed with the apothecary?”

This question appeared to amuse Daylen more than anything else.  “I apprenticed with him when I was a boy,” he told her with a chuckle.  “Now I _am_ the apothecary.”

#

Later, after the wounded were healed and the dead were tended—pyres would wait until after a wake, to allow telegraphs time to reach the dead templars’ families—Fenris stood alone in the town square.  Sunlight spilled down as if in defiance to the morning’s ordeal, bathing the bloodstained street.  The patch of grass where the abomination had fallen— _those_ remains were still burning; foul, black smoke rose beyond the town’s southernmost boundary—was dead and withered, dry blades of ruined grass sticking up through the blackened ground.

The sooner they left this place, the better.

Soft footfalls against grit caught his ear and Fenris turned a fraction.  Amelle Hawke stood in his peripheral vision, her shirtsleeves still rolled up to the elbows, her hands scrubbed free of blood.  He’d been surprised when she had announced her intention to remain and help the healers.  It would have made more sense for Hawke to depart at the first opportunity, he thought—these were still templars, after all, and if Hawke were to be discovered now… it didn’t bear thinking about.

Fenris didn’t know what to make of her.  Still.  

“You look like you’re deep in thought.”

Fenris turned to face her fully, the cavalry sword she’d pulled off the dead templar swinging gently at his hip.  Marshall Greagoir had insisted he keep it as a gesture of appreciation, and though it felt… strange to have such a weapon there, he did not entirely mind the addition.  “I suppose I am.”

“I imagine it’s too much to ask whether they’re pleasant thoughts?” she asked.  “After a morning like this one?”

The entire course of his thoughts were too broad and varied to answer such a question easily.  He settled for saying, “You managed to navigate today’s… events without telling a single falsehood.”

But rather than looking pleased or proud, Hawke’s expression turned to one of consternation.  “Besides the obvious lie of omission, you mean,” she said, lowering her voice as she drew closer.

“No,” he answered honestly, meeting her eyes for a defiant moment.  “I do not begrudge you your need to protect yourself.  I was only… surprised you managed to do so without… lying.”

“Well, there’s a good reason for that,” replied Hawke, a grin playing at her lips.  “I’m a rotten liar.”

Crossing his arms, Fenris arched an eyebrow at Hawke.  “I have seen theatrics to the contrary.”

The grin widened, revealing a dimple in her left cheek.  “And did I lie to _you_?”

“No,” Fenris countered.  “But I doubt your promises regarding your _Empress Elixir_ were even remotely accurate.”

“You remembered any of that?” she replied, dimpling at him.  “Maker, I think I’m flattered.  Tell me, would it help if I warned people it causes blindness?”  She paused, tapping her chin.  “That might be a point in its favor—after all, it’s been said on more than one occasion love is blind.”

“Hawke,” Fenris said heavily, leveling a stern look her way.  It lasted several seconds, then she shrugged, shedding her lightheartedness like a skin. 

“That’s… different, Fenris,” she said, shaking her head.  The breeze had kicked up, turning slightly damp.  Hawke’s hair blew across her forehead and she impatiently flicked it away.  “That’s… theatre.  Drama.  It’s… fibbing with style.”  She turned her head to look at the patch of black, dead grass, her expression turning to something he could not easily read.  Sorrow.  Regret.  Resignation, perhaps.  Seconds passed and she turned, crossing her arms over herself, eyes never tearing from that spot.  “What happened today was… something else entirely.  Theatrics wouldn’t have saved me today.  I’m not sure anything could have saved me, had things gone differently.”

Fenris agreed, though he did not give voice to the other thoughts battling in his head, the thoughts that had wondered _what if_ Hawke had been found out?  Would Isabela and Varric have stood by and watched her be led away?  Would _he?_   Fenris had no love for mages and never had, but in all their dealings, Hawke had never treated him as anything less than a friend.  

He remembered, suddenly and incongruously, the night before, when they’d stood together in the stables, when he’d handed her his handkerchief to wipe away the trail of horse saliva from her palm.  He remembered how grateful she’d been for such a foolish little gesture, and how she’d folded away the hay-smeared spittle before returning the item to him, as if she hadn’t wanted him to dirty his hands.  Hawke was… unlike any mage he’d ever known, and yet she was still a mage.  Instinct dictated she was untrustworthy, that she could—and would—turn on him at the first opportunity.

And yet she had shared her home with him, had shared the food at her table, had shared the very power he railed against, and used it to mend his bones.

Could he have watched her be led away?  Could he have done nothing?

Hawke spoke again, interrupting Fenris’ thoughts and leaving him suddenly grateful for the interrupting.  “I think I saw it, you know,” she said, still looking at the dead, brown grass.  “The moment when she gave in.  She was _so afraid_ —”

“The mage gave herself over to a demon,” Fenris snapped.  “Do not pity her.”

“Shouldn’t I?”  Stepping closer to the patch, Hawke, scuffed the heel of her boot over the dead earth.  “Everyone has their limits.  Seeing this happen makes me wonder what mine is.”  She lifted her head and looked at him squarely, light burnishing her hair and catching the green in her eyes.  “What are my limits?  I was afraid today—maybe more afraid than I’d ever been.  Couldn’t the same thing happen to me?”  Her expression twisted into something wry.  “You don’t have to say anything—I know it could.  And maybe knowing it could is the thing that keeps it from happening.  I don’t know.”

Shaking his head, Fenris closed the distance between them, standing by her shoulder.  “You respect your own power.  You maintain control over yourself.  You did not know that mage, her proclivities, her habits, her weaknesses.  You cannot begin to hold yourself to another’s successes or failures without knowing the truth of what they are.”

Hawke looked at him a moment—several moments—before tipping her head at an angle and giving him a shrewd look.  “I don’t know how much—or _if_ —I agree with any of that, but… you may have a point.”

“A single one,” he drawled.

Shrewdness melted into another dimpled smile.  “Maybe two.”

“I shall wait with bated breath for you to decide.”  He turned, tilting his head toward the stables.  “Come.  I believe we have lingered long enough.  We should move on.”

“…Shortly,” Hawke replied, glancing over her shoulder.  “I need to stop in at the apothecary’s shop briefly.”

“I did not realize you were low on supplies.”

The sun vanished behind a cloud as Hawke’s expression turned unreadable.  She wrestled with something for a moment or two, then shook off whatever it was, and when she turned to him, her brows drawn together, her lips pressed into a line, he realized what she’d meant about being a horrible liar, for Fenris was nearly certain he’d seen the moment Hawke decided _not_ to tell an untruth now.

“One of the healers,” she said, “has my mother’s name.  Amell.”

“Do you suspect you are… kin?”

“No room for suspicion anymore—I’m certain of it.”  She looked over her shoulder and sighed.  “I’d like to speak with him.  Just for a few moments—I know we need to leave and we need to leave _soon_ if we’re going to cross the River Dane by sunset, but…”

A frown settled on his features almost immediately.  They had already lost most of the morning, and after _such_ a morning, it only made sense Hawke would wish to distance herself from Kinloch Hold as swiftly as possible; that she evidently did not wish to leave immediately sparked a flame of irritation beneath his breast.  It was imperative they leave, and Hawke ought to have been the last one contriving reasons to stay, kin or no.  He _knew_ the importance of never remaining in one location too long, of avoiding suspicion, of _moving._

But Hawke wished to stay some time longer.  Such a prospect fairly _screamed_ in the face of his instincts, which were urging him to _go, go, go; leave, leave, leave,_ and it took every ounce of Fenris’ self-control not to snap at Hawke, to insist they leave immediately, to the Void with whatever kin she may have unearthed in this place.  Every moment they lingered was another moment they were at risk, another moment _Hawke_ was at risk.

The remonstrations and demands sat poised on his tongue—no, they did not have time; no, doing so would jeopardize reaching the River Dane by sunset; no, he would not sit idly by while her own self-preservation remained silent.  _No._

Drawing in a breath, possibly even to _voice_ these thoughts, Fenris took a closer look at Hawke.  The magebane still coursed through her blood—he knew that to be true, could tell it simply by looking at her.  She thought of her demeanor that morning, how she’d met her accusers with righteous indignation rather than tearful pleas, how she had _acted_ , despite having no magic to act with.  

She would not endanger herself—or the rest of them—knowingly.

“And you are certain this kin of yours is trustworthy?” he asked, making no effort whatsoever to hide the suspicion in his own tone.

Blowing out a breath, Hawke looked down at her hands—on closer inspection, though they were freshly scrubbed, dark residue remained under her nails, blood that would not be scrubbed away with bristles and soap.  “He could tell what I was when the templars couldn’t,” she said, the words scarcely audible.  “He’s a spirit healer, like me.  I… I can’t even _explain_ it, Fenris.  I’d just really like to talk to him.”

Fenris inhaled slowly and exhaled through his nose.  “Then go,” he said shortly.  “But be on your guard.  I will tell Varric and Isabela we expect to be underway soon.”

Hawke’s smile was bright and pleased as she reached out to grasp his hand, giving it a sudden, impulsive squeeze.  “I won’t dawdle.  I swear it.”

The touch—so casual, so unaffected—lingered against his skin as he watched her meander across the square in search of the apothecary shop.  Fenris shook out his hand until the sensation passed and turned on his heel in search of Varric and Isabela.

They could not leave Kinloch Hold soon enough.

#

It took no more than two steps into Daylen’s shop for Amelle to see just how different it was from the one in Lothering, and nearly everywhere else she’d visited in Ferelden.  She’d been expecting something more along the lines of Mathers’ ancient specimens on cluttered shelves, herbs drying from the ceiling, as if the old man had _created_ the model from which every other apothecary shop in Ferelden worked.  Maker knew he’d been around long enough.

But such was not the case in Daylen Amell’s shop.  It was free of dust, thick glass jars fairly sparkling as Amelle peered in them, roots and herbs distorted by the thick, curved glass; the polished wood floor gleamed as morning light poured through the windows.  The space was not quite so cramped as Mathers’ place either, with high ceilings and plenty of room to move about and examine ingredients and potions, tinctures and teas.

“I have heard it said,” drawled Amelle as she approached the man who was her cousin—her _cousin,_ Maker’s blood, if that wasn’t the last thing she’d expected to find here, of all places—as he stood behind the counter, watching her with the same kind of bemusement she’d been wrestling with since he’d first introduced himself.  “You can tell a busy apothecary from an idle one by how tidily he keeps his shop.”

Daylen laughed, and something about the tilt of his head, or perhaps the way one corner of his mouth tilted higher than the other, reminded Amelle powerfully of her mother.  

She had a cousin _._   And he was a _mage_.  More than that, he was a spirit healer.  Amelle’s earlier dread at the prospect of having to remain in Kinloch Hold was replaced by vague disappointment she wasn’t going to get more than a few minutes with a newfound family member.

“I wouldn’t call myself _idle_ ,” he replied, leaning forward and resting his forearms against the scarred wood—but they were marks of natural wear, and lent character to the countertop. “Though not all mornings are as… exciting as this one was.”  Her cousin’s forehead creased in thought.  “Busy, though—I suppose it is.  Busy enough, anyway, with steady, repeat orders throughout the town.”  He shrugged, nodding at the shelves.  “Among other things, I supply the hotel with whatever herb blends it needs.”  He laughed at the confusion on her face.  “Ah.”  He coughed.  “Not… culinary herbs.”

She thought of the embrium in the bath.  “The bath salts?”

“My very own recipe,” he said, proudly.  “The hotel staff know how to blend it now, but… yes, the original concoction was my own.  Also teas if they need them—medicinal, rejuvenating, sleep-inducing.  The farrier’s another regular customer.  Last winter I came up with a brew for colicky horses that—ah,” Daylen stopped suddenly, reining in the tumble of words, faintly embarrassed by his enthusiasm.  “You probably don’t want to hear about—”

“Don’t be so sure about that,” Amelle replied, grinning.

He smiled in turn, clearly thinking she was just being polite, going on to say, “In any event, things fall into a pattern and once you find that rhythm, it’s easy to keep up, unless there’s an outbreak of flu or an incident like this morning’s…” he trailed off, brow furrowing.  “Oh.  But I’ve said something to upset you.”

Amelle blinked.  It was true, she supposed— she’d only been thinking of how nice it would be to have the opportunity to grow accustomed to a rhythm somewhere.  “It’s nothing,” she assured him.  “You just sound as if you… like it here.  I… confess I’m surprised”  

“It isn’t perfect,” he admitted, straightening and moving to a small glassed cabinet, carefully opening the doors and pulling out a tall oblong tin.  “I’d like very much to travel, someday.  A futile wish, I know.  All the same, I… I like the work I’m doing.  I can’t pretend I don’t enjoy it.  And I’m good at it.”  He eased open the tin’s lid and the warm, bright scent of ginger wafted up; Amelle breathed in a little more deeply. “I know you’re meant to be on your way, but—”

“If you’re offering me tea, cousin, the answer is yes.  I can stay for a cup of anything that smells that heavenly.”  

Brightening, Daylen pulled a battered kettle from somewhere behind the counter and set about filling it.  Amelle watched as he worked, measuring tea into an old scratched teapot and holding the kettle in his hands before mana stretched out to heat the water within.  “So,” she asked, resting one hip against the counter, “you… even being the town’s apothecary, you can’t…”

Daylen made a face.  “Sometimes I can.  If a nearby mining camp or one of the smaller towns badly need a healer, Nadiah—she’s the Circle’s private healer—or I will be sent out.  But I did tell you it’s more of a difficulty for some of us more than others.  I imagine it chafes more for anyone who had a… happier life before coming here.”  Steam coiled from the kettle’s spout.

“Ah, yes,” murmured Amelle as Daylen poured water into the pot.  “Downfall of the proud Amell name.”

“Even before that,” he said with a dry laugh.  “I can’t say that my life and experience is representative of all, but… I am able to do good work here.”

“I think I envy you that,” she said, a little wistfully as the scent of ginger and spice curled up around them.  “Doing good work.”

“What is it you do, then?”

Pulling a wry face, Amelle told him.  By the time she was finished, the tea had steeped to a deep red.  Daylen looked thoughtful as he poured the tea into two waiting cups.  “It certainly doesn’t sound boring.”

Laughing despite herself, she took the teacup into both hands.  “Oh, it’s seldom that.”

“Then it could be worse, couldn’t it?” he asked, gesturing with the cup before taking a sip.  Amelle followed suit, breathing in the ginger and spice; the warmth, the scent, even the steam conspired to loosen the tension that had coiled at the base of her skull since the alarm bell had cut through the morning stillness.

“Things can always get worse,” Amelle replied, smirking at Daylen from behind her cup.  “Anyone who says otherwise is just lacking imagination.”

“Well said.”  Then he started a little and set down the cup.  “Which reminds me…”

“Things having the capacity to get worse reminded you of something?”

“No,” he answered patiently, “but discussing your… unique vocation reminded me of something I meant to do earlier.”  Taking another sip from his cup, Daylen moved to the far end of the counter, crouching down a moment.  The slide of a drawer being pulled open and closed followed, and soon Daylen stood; in his hands he held several small potion bottles that glinted with liquid as deeply orange as any sunset.  He pushed the bottles across the counter to her.  “Here.”

Amelle picked up one vial, turning it this way and that, marveling at its color as she held it to a beam of sunlight.  “It’s beautiful.  What is it?”

“I heard what you did—blinding the abomination.”

She exhaled in a snort.  “I was desperate.”

“It was quick thinking.  And it worked, which is even more important.”

“A charlatan’s love potion’s all it was.  The gin’s probably what stung the worst.”

“Even so.  I’d like you to have these.  It’s not much—a rejuvenation potion I blended.  It might help you and your friends—and the horses—a few extra hours of travel time in, wherever it is you’re headed.”  He paused, tilting his head.  “Where _are_ you headed?”

The potion glinted gold in her hand.  “To see my brother.  We haven’t said a word to each other since my sister’s death, and my mother’s asked me to… attempt a reconciliation.”

“Oh.”  He blinked, as if this news were somehow unexpected.  Or maybe he’d assumed her family to be happier than it really was. “Well, it’s good of you to—”

“He’s a templar in Kirkwall.”

Her cousin blinked again.  Twice.  “I’m sorry, what?  You—you’re—” Daylen sputtered, planting his hands on the counter and _staring_ at Amelle. Some of the color had drained from his face, and she realized he looked almost as if he were gripping the counter for support.  “You’re going to Kirkwall?  _Kirkwall?_ ”

“I realize it’s not the most flattering path, all things considered,” she conceded.  “And there are stories about Meredith Stannard—”

“Oh, to the Void with Stannard,” he spat, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s true she’s bad, but she’s not the worst thing in Kirkwall, not by a long shot. That city’s so soaked in blood, the Veil’s started to tear.”

Amelle stared at him.  Oh, she knew enough about Kirkwall’s history—it had been a territory of the Tevinter Imperium until the Free Marches had started expanding.  There were rumors, too, of the magisters murdering slaves that did not fit on the ships, rather than leaving them behind and free.  But that’s all they were—rumors and stories.  Nobody _believed_ them.  “You’re… not serious.”

“I am,” he replied gravely.  “Very.  I thank the Maker every day my parents couldn’t stand the sight of me, else they might’ve sent me to Kirkwall’s Circle.”  He sighed.  “I apologize.  I’ve… got no real proof beyond the experiences of having lived there and the perspective provided by time and distance.  But, I promise you, Kirkwall is a mad place.  Be wary, cousin. I have scarce little family as it is; I should hate to lose one of the more interesting members to such a hellhole as that.”

Shocked at Daylen’s vehemence, Amelle could only nod.  “I— of course, I promise.”  Very gently, she set her satchel on the counter and began tucking the bottles of the deeply colored potion in among the others, adding, “It’s doubtful Carver will even want to speak to me, but I’ve got to make the attempt.  I suspect it’ll be a short visit.”

Daylen didn’t say anything right away.  He was frowning, running one finger along her satchel’s bent buckle thoughtfully.  

“One of the templars did that this morning,” she sighed.  “Marshall Greagoir suggested I take it to the blacksmith, but I should be able to fix it myself later.”

And then, with the tip of one finger and a sharp pulse of mana, the warmth of which Amelle could feel across the counter, Daylen very carefully bent the twisted buckle back into place.  “There.  Good as new.” As the glow off the heated metal dimmed, he tapped his fingers restlessly against the wood.  “I… this is probably impertinent, but, I—if you… I’m not saying you _will,_ but if you find you… need someone to… to talk to.  Who might understand your… your skills, then…”  Another moment’s hesitation and Daylen pulled free a sheet of paper and pen from another drawer, hastily scribbling on it.  “If you need to—what I’m trying to say is… write, cousin.  If you need anything.  Don’t… obviously don’t speak… _too_ plainly.  Templars are still templars, after all.  Even when you’re the apothecary.  But if there is any way I can—I should like to assist you, if it’s at all in my power.  Even if it is from a distance.”

Amelle took the slip of paper.  The ink was already drying.

“You’re that concerned about Kirkwall.”

A long pause filled the space between them before Daylen nodded slowly.  “I am.”


	14. Chapter 14

They were a few hours outside Kinloch Hold, not even halfway to West Hill, when they stopped for a rest, and so Amelle could check on Isabela’s injury.  Isabela, of course, had insisted from the start her wound wasn’t that bad, but it had been deep, and Amelle couldn’t quite rid her mind of the memory that kept stubbornly surfacing of the abomination and its claws rending her friend’s sleeve and skin.  Worse, she didn’t know whether or not the cut had been somehow poisoned—what did she really _know_ about abominations anyway?  Other than they were terrifying and disgusting and—

And they’d once been _mages_.

With this all firmly in mind, Amelle had decided she would keep a particularly close eye on Isabela’s scratch until such time as her mana showed itself again, at which point she would heal it thoroughly and properly.  Unfortunately, her mana was still quiet, still overpowered by that morning’s magebane, and now that she was going on the second day straight of having no magic to speak of—and after that morning, no one would ever be able to convince her the tincture had ever been a bad idea—the place where her magic lived, that part of her spirit tethered to the Fade, had begun to ache in a raw, hollowed-out, scratched-over sort of way.

It was, she decided, definitely the magebane and not the sight of a young woman so losing herself to fear and panic that she gave over to a demon instead.  Definitely not that woman’s terrified screams, either.  And _definitely_ not the certainty with which she’d called Amelle a mage.  Daylen had said only another spirit healer would be able to identify her—which made sense, in a way—so it was likely only the woman’s fear and panic had been fuel for her words, Amelle was sure.  And yet.

There was always that “and yet,” wasn’t there?  Fear was powerful.  Dangerous.  Fear had kept mages locked in Circles like inmates in asylums for longer than Amelle could remember.  But Analie Caddell had, with her own panic, only justified other people’s apprehensions.  She had given them reason to fear her—to fear any mage.  For as much as Amelle found it personally insulting anyone could possibly be afraid of her, of what she was, she knew all too well how deeply afraid _she’d_ been, put face to face with an abomination.

It was enough to make her wonder if she oughtn’t to fear herself, sometimes.

But that was a train of thought best left unexamined for now, and Amelle pushed it away as she knelt by the tree stump Isabela had claimed as her seat, opening her satchel and rifling through the contents inside, pulling out ointment and fresh bandages.  Red had already begun to bloom through Isabela’s wrappings and, with a frown and a furrowed brow, Amelle started unwinding the strips from her friend’s arm.

“It’s not that bad, kitten.  I’ve had worse.”

But Amelle didn’t reply.  Isabela may have had worse, may have seen worse, but _she_ hadn’t. It was also next to impossible to ignore the niggling tug of responsibility over what had transpired. It existed an inexplicable way that made no sense in her head, but had dug in its heels somewhere around her gut.  

Oh, she’d heard and heeded all the warnings her father had ever given her—Amelle knew well the danger of what she was.  And of course it was all well and good to say “keep your head” and “don’t give in to your fears,” and if a voice in your head promises you something, you really _are_ better off telling that voice “no, thank you,” no matter how good it sounds.  But those were only words.  Never in Amelle’s life had she been so scared, so terrified that if a demon ever whispered in her ear she might accept all it had to offer her. But after seeing what she’d seen, the possibility became real to her in a way it never had before, and that reality frightened her even more than the abomination itself had.  The obvious answer to her conundrum was “vigilance.”  A vigilant mage would never turn so.  But what happened when vigilance ran dry?

Amelle knew the dangers of being a mage; she’d just never been put face to face with them before.  

She didn’t like it.

The wound on Isabela’s arm ran from shoulder to forearm, a long, deep line of red—not so deep it needed stitches, thankfully, but deep enough Amelle mourned the absence of her magic.  After tying off a clean bandage, she offered her friend an apologetic smile.  

“The best I can do right now.  I doubt I’ll need to try very hard to hide myself once we reach West Hill—I’ll fix it up properly when we get there.”

Isabela rolled her eyes, but there was a smile at her lips as she shook her head.  “You are adorable the way you fuss.”

Amelle snorted as she tucked her supplies back in her satchel.  “I do not _fuss._ ”

“Are you kidding me, Hawke?” said Varric from the base of the tree he was sprawled against, notebook open against one lap, pen poised in midair. “You are a first-class, grade-A fusser.  You agree, Broody?”

Fenris looked up from where he was polishing the templar sword Marshall Greagoir had insisted he keep as thanks; black blood still stained the blade in long, weblike streaks, dulling the gleam of the metal.  “If Hawke is worried,” he said evenly, “there is usually a good reason for it.”

“See?” Amelle said, jerking a thumb at Fenris.  “He doesn’t think I’m—”

“That said, in the main, I would have to agree.”

“Hey!” she yelped, turning to glare at Fenris.

And then the somber elf did the unimaginable.  He laughed.  Chuckled, really.  But it was an expression of mirth all the same, lips curled into a whisper of a smile as he looked down at the sword he held.  Then he looked up to find Amelle, blinking at him, and whatever there might have been of laughter was schooled away beneath a cough.

The heartbeat of silence that followed twisted itself upside-down in such a way Amelle Hawke was certain she knew the exact moment she’d lost her breath.  The moment came and went, but before the silence could stretch into something truly uncomfortable, Fenris turned his attention back to the blade still in dire need of cleaning, giving Amelle several much-needed seconds to recover her savoir-faire.

She stood, sending a doleful, long-suffering look to her so-called friends.  “I’ve got half a mind never to heal any of you ever again,” she sniffed, slinging her bag over her shoulder

“Too late,” sang Isabela, holding out her arm with a flourish.

“Better yet,” she went on, “I’ll wait until one of you is horribly, dreadfully, direly, _life-threateningly_ —”

“You might be overdoing it with the adjectives, there,” Varric pointed out, glancing up briefly before turning back to his work. “Just a little.”

“Life-threateningly injured, and then I’ll refuse to heal you.  And what are you writing, anyway?”

“No, you wouldn’t,” riposted Varric with maddening confidence, his pen scratching rapidly across paper.  

“You really wouldn’t,” Isabela interjected cheerfully, heaving to her feet to refill her canteen in the river.

“And I,” Varric went on, “am writing a travelogue.  The… highlights of our trip so far, you might say.”

“Highlights,” echoed Amelle, dubiously, taking a few steps closer to Varric.  “Yes, I can see it now _Spring in Ferelden: Bedbugs and Abominations._   Very catchy title.”

He chuckled, shaking his head.  “You know as well as I do there’s not much money in telling the truth.”

“Uh huh.”

“If you must know,” Varric said, pausing to heave a great, put-upon sigh, the authenticity of which was dubious at best. “The highlights I’ve chosen to include have been… slightly embellished.”

“Embellished,” she echoed again, eyes narrowing as one eyebrow rose to her hairline.  “Slightly embellished _how_ , Varric?  A woman turned into an abomination before our eyes this morning—how exactly,” Amelle muttered, crouching down behind Varric and leaning forward to read what he’d written upon those pages, “did you manage to embellish—”

She read the first few lines her eyes lighted upon, and _stopped_.  “Maker’s Breath, I cannot believe you—”

“What?” Varric replied, looking wounded.  “What’s the problem?”

“I am—I am _not_ ‘buxom’!” Amelle sputtered, wide-eyed and cheeks flaming with heat as she stabbed a finger against the book.  “Or—or any of those other adjectives!  You take those out right now, Varric Tethras, or I swear to the Maker I’ll—”

“It’s embellishment,” Varric soothed, deftly sliding his notebook out from under Amelle’s fingertip.  “This way no one’ll know it’s really you.”

Amelle blinked at Varric.  Several times.  “I can’t—there are at least—at _least_ a hundred flaws in that logic, and I… I will get back to you on what they are.”

From across the campfire, however, Fenris did not comment.  He looked, in fact, as if he were making an effort not to acknowledge their conversation at all as he cleaned and polished the templar sword.  Small blessings.

Face still hot with discomfiture, Amelle crossed the short distance between them and knelt carefully in the grass.  “Please tell me you aren’t writing down your memoirs, too.”

Fenris looked up, and then back down again—rather pointedly—to the sword he was cleaning.  “I am not.”

“Thank the Maker.  Anyway, at the rate of completely undermining my own threats—are you quite sure you’re unhurt?  I know you said you were fine back in Kinloch Hold, but…”  The sight of Fenris being hurled back by the abomination’s blast of dark magic lived a little too vividly in her memory.

“I am well,” he assured her, “but for a few bruises that will heal.”

She nodded, indicating his knee. “You didn’t—you didn’t exacerbate any of your old injuries?”

Fenris gave a brief shake of his head, white strands of hair swaying with the movement.  “I did not.  And even if I had, I doubt you would have the… ability to restore them at this point.”

“There’s little enough I can do, that’s true, but…” trailing off, she shrugged one shoulder.  “I appreciate what you did.”  When Fenris didn’t reply, didn’t say anything indicating he had any idea what she was talking about, Amelle cleared her throat.  “With the templars.  You… spoke up for me.  It… maybe it didn’t seem like much, but I appreciated it all the same.”

His dark eyebrows contracted.  “Had you perhaps thought I would have revealed you to them?”

It was a fair question, she thought, and Amelle considered it a moment, then slowly shook her head.  “No,” she said slowly, sinking down from her knees to rest upon one hip.  “I don’t think you would have revealed me.”  And she meant it.  “But… but that doesn’t mean I expected you to…” her gesture was a futile one—how did she explain that she hadn’t really expected him to admit knowing her, much less being any sort of traveling companion, _much less_ standing behind her without hesitation when she’d been dragged in front of the templar marshall.  “You spoke up for me.  Stood by me.  I…” Amelle cleared her throat, her face still warm. “Thank you.  That’s all.”

As she stood, Fenris asked, “Had you not done the same for me?”

She sank back down against the soft grass, her brow contorting in momentary confusion.  “I don’t—do you mean healing you?”

Fenris looked up again from his blade, gaze intent and steady.  “No, I do not.”  He paused a moment, and when Amelle failed to give any indication she knew what he meant, he went on.  “Do not think I am ignorant of the fact that you must have taken on the slavers that had ambushed me.  Do not think I am not aware of how quickly you must have learned they were slavers.”

Then— _then_ she understood.  “Ah.”

“You see.”

“I… suppose I do.”

They sat there a few moments in silence while Amelle watched Fenris’ move an oiled cloth over the metal, working away the last vestiges of the abomination’s black blood from the blade.

Finally, without looking up, he said, “If you have anything that might alleviate bruising, it would be helpful.”

Amelle’s brow quirked and she began digging in her satchel.  “Bruises?”

“Yes.” 

So perhaps her concerns were grounded after all; though there didn’t appear to be any stiffness in his movements, it had taken far more extensive injury to cause even a slight limp in his gait.  Given this, Amelle was quietly surprised Fenris was admitting to having even a bruise.

“I just so happen to have just the thing,” she murmured, pushing aside bottles and bandages  and flasks before pulling a jar free from the rest and holding it out.  Fenris took the jar, then frowned at it. Then, tilting his head slightly to the side, he frowned harder.

“Is this…”

“Nug Oil Liniment,” she said proudly, and with a breath of her old patter.  “Best poultice you’ll find this side of the Frostback Mountains, made with frostrock from those very hills.  Soothes sore muscles and heals minor cuts and scrapes.”

“I have some of my own from a traveling merchant in Ostagar,” he said, preparatory to returning the jar to Amelle.

“What a coincidence,” she chuckled, her hand outstretched expectantly.  “I think I’ve heard of her.” 

But before Fenris placed the jar in her waiting palm, his brows drew together in puzzlement, and he took her hand in his.  “What is this?” he asked, indicating a long red line running from the base of her index finger down to the bend of her wrist.

Amelle sighed.  “Nothing.  Just… some of the bottles I threw—on my way back from the apothecary—”

“Your cousin.”

“Yes.  On my way back I went through the square, by the gazebo.”  She looked down at her hand and shrugged.  “We were all so caught up with cleaning up the blood and bodies, I guess broken glass was a little beneath anyone’s notice.  I picked some of it up.  Anyone could’ve stepped on it, or cut themselves—”

“As you’ve made evident.”

“Yes, thank you for pointing out the obvious.”  She scowled down at the cut.  “It’s nothing, really.  Just a scratch.  Figured I’d just heal it up once my mana came back.”  

“Your horse’s reins have rubbed it raw,” he said, indicating a spot just below her index finger.

“It’s hardly the worst injury I’ve tended,” Amelle protested.  “Or not tended, in this particular case.”

Fenris leveled a look at her, his brows dark slashes above his eyes.  She knew the look—she just wished she didn’t _like_ it so much.  It was not an expression of long-suffering.  It wasn’t even long-suffering’s third cousin.  It was exasperation, and nothing less than that. “Hawke.”

“It’s just a scratch,” Amelle sighed.

Shaking his head and keeping a firm hold on her hand, Fenris reached beside him and, using his teeth, twisted the cap free from his canteen, then doused Amelle’s palm with clean water.

She started a little from the cold splash against her palm.  “What are you—what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

“Even the smallest wounds can lead to infection,” he said, peering at the scratch before dousing it again with chilly, clear water. “Do not be foolish.  Besides, you yourself said your liniment was appropriate for minor cuts.”

Amelle stared, dumbstruck, as Fenris meticulously cleaned the scratch, deftly twisting open the very jar she’d handed him, smearing a tiny amount on his index finger, and carefully rubbing it into the wound—if one could even call it that, and Amelle wasn’t entirely sure she _did._   He was overreacting, _definitely_ overreacting, and Amelle most certainly was not distracted by the warmth of Fenris’ hands, the surprisingly light touch with which he applied the liniment, the way his hair fell forward, shading his eyes as he worked.  

Without a word he took a roll of bandages that had been peeking out from her bag, and tore a strip free, wrapping it around her hand and tying it off.

When she did finally speak, Amelle’s words came out in a far huskier tone than she’d anticipated.  She coughed, cleared her throat, and tried again.  “And you say I fuss.”

“You are too accustomed to healing others,” he replied quietly, setting both the jar and the remaining unused bandage back in her satchel.

“I—”  Amelle began to argue, but looked again at her hand instead. She’d ignored the scratch because she was too accustomed to not having to heal herself—that much was true.  She didn’t realize until that moment it had been throbbing at all—because it had stopped, the heat slowly ebbing away beneath the cool ointment.  “You’re… probably right.”

Fenris inclined his head, which was about as much of a reply as Amelle would have expected, and she rearranged the items in her bag; a needless alteration, but one that kept her hands busy.  

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

A light drizzle began as they were breaking camp, the mist of droplets beading up in a fine sheen against the long line of Falcon’s neck, catching in his mane like tiny crystals.  “Hope this passes soon,” Varric grumbled, glaring up at the sky as he unbundled a battered duster from his pack.  “Because there’s a whole lot of nothing-much between here and West Hill.”

When Amelle glanced at Fenris, she found he’d already shrugged into the dark coat she’d first spied him in, the collar turned up against the wet breeze that carried with it a sudden chill.  She shrugged into her own felted wool coat, glad she’d packed it at all—she very nearly hadn’t.  The lanolin made for a smell that wasn’t entirely pleasant when it was soaked through, but the coat itself was sufficient against a light spring rain, and warm against the chill in the spring wind.

“There’s shelter enough on the other side of the river, Varric, don’t you worry,” Isabela riposted, pulling her hair free from the collar of her greatcoat.  “Nothing with the hot baths and feather beds you were so fond of, though.”

Varric heaved himself into Cedric’s saddle.  “Oh, it was me who was fond of them?”

“That’s how I recall it,” sniffed Isabela.

Unfortunately, as they pressed on, the drizzle did not lighten; instead, the rain began to fall in earnest, until water pooled in the brim of Amelle’s hat, falling in steady drips both in front and behind.  The wind kicked up, sharp gusts sending water against Amelle’s face, catching in her eyelashes and finding its way past her own upturned collar, to slide in cold trickles down her neck.  As they rode on, the ground churned to mud beneath the horses’ hooves as Agrippa snorted her displeasure and Falcon shook his head to rid the water from his ears, trotting nervously to the side if a clap of thunder resonated overhead.  Tango, easily the eldest horse, moved through the rain with annoyance that matched his rider’s mood almost comically.  Only Cedric seemed not to be bothered by the weather, his step light though his shaggy coat was dripping wet.

Amelle wasn’t sure how many miles they’d traveled before coming to the bridge, but the journey itself had felt endless.  Water had slunk down her neck, beneath her coat, and though water beaded up on her sleeves, she was soaked through to the skin underneath, stiffness and a deep chill was beginning to settle into her bones, such that every step Falcon took set off a thrum of aches.  Perhaps it would have been wise to make use of some of Daylen’s rejuvenation potion before they’d started off, but things hadn’t started getting bad until the rain had thickened, and by that point stopping wasn’t an option—they needed to reach the bridge and find shelter before the worst of the storm crept upon them.

Finally, after too many miles and too many hours, an arched silhouette slowly eased itself out of the distance, growing gradually visible through the thick, grey sheets of water.  The bridge crossing the River Dane was a simple stone footbridge, heavy and dwarven-made, built at a slight incline to accommodate the higher ground on the opposite bank.  With low sides and scarcely wide enough to fit a single wagon, the structure was clearly old, and the stones worn smooth; on the opposite side, a series of ambitious vines stretched out across the stonework with curling, thick green tendrils dotted with bright, wide flowers, bursts of yellow and purple that pushed through the mist of rain.  Steady trickles of water flowed from small holes chiseled into the rock, presumably to keep the bridge from flooding.  Beneath it, the River Dane churned and frothed, its choppy current slapping against the banks on either side.

Falcon had never been much of a spooker; his parents’ temperaments, to say nothing of his own, had been a huge part of why her father had chosen Falcon for Amelle in the first place.  But for at least the last mile before the bridge, he’d turned strangely nervous, his body tensing beneath Amelle’s saddle and against her legs, ears flicking back and forth as he tossed his head, prancing to one side and then the other, and swinging his hindquarters around, taking Amelle enough by surprise that at least once she’d nearly lost her seat.  Last thing she wanted or needed to do was take an already nervous horse over an unfamiliar bridge ahead of the others.

“You three go on ahead,” she said, dismounting, feet sinking miserably into the mud.  “I’m walking him over last.”

Varric cast her a doubtful look, but Amelle waved him on.  Once Isabela had made it up the bridge and was safely on the other side, Varric was about midway across, and Fenris had just eased Agrippa onto the stonework, she led Falcon to the bridge.  He tossed his head, ears flattened, but she kept a firm grip on the reins in one hand, and slowly rubbed her other hand along the line of his neck; muscles tensed beneath her palm and she took a deep breath in and out again.

“Easy,” she murmured in a low, soothing voice.  “Easy.”

Falcon tossed his head and snorted in reply, telling her just what he thought of her “easy.”  

It wasn’t anything nice.

As Amelle waited, the rain fell hard enough and steadily enough that water swirled around her feet as it pushed through the drainage holes; what didn’t drain coursed down the incline and pooled into puddles.  Ahead of her, Fenris was just midway over the bridge; Amelle drew in a deep breath, and clucked her tongue softly, urging Falcon forward.

Their first few steps across the bridge were uncertain; Falcon’s ears flicked in agitation as he snorted, but they made their slow, careful way out over the bridge, Amelle speaking soothingly to Falcon, though her hands were so tight around the reins, the leather was biting hard into her fingers.

They weren’t even halfway across the bridge before things turned.

A bolt of lightning cut a blinding path across the sky, followed swiftly by a clap of thunder so loud, so sharp, so clear, it sounded as if a tree somewhere had split in two.  

Falcon reared up, a bunching lurch of equine muscle yanking the wet reins through her fingers, burning her hand and pulling Fenris’ bandage free.  Stepping back, she put her arms out, as much to calm her horse as to make a grab for the reins jostling against Falcon’s dark neck.  Amelle ground out a furious curse as Falcon pranced to his left, swinging his hindquarters into her, shoving her too close to the bridge’s low ledge.  She darted forward, narrowly missing Falcon swinging his body around other way—another shove like that was going send her clear off the bridge. 

 _Grab the reins, grab the reins, grab the Maker-forsaken reins, damn it._ Amelle, mindful of stomping hooves and a thousand pounds of terrified horse, narrowly avoided getting her foot crushed as Falcon bolted forward several steps.  Cursing again, she moved to stay by his shoulder, all the while trying to soothe him, calm him, and praying harder than she’d ever prayed before this wouldn’t end with her being trampled.

“Whoa,” she said, pitching her voice low, trying— _trying_ not to sound panicked, trying not to let fear seep into her voice.  “Whoa.  _Easy._ You’re fine, Falconfeathers.  Good boy.  Easy. Good boy,” she said the words over and over again, forcing them out slowly and calmly as she tried to reach for the reins.  _Slow and calm,_ she reminded herself _. Don’t lose your head._ “Easy.  Whoa.  Easy, boy.  _Sweet_ boy.”

But the rain and the bridge and the thunder were at that precise moment more than her horse was willing to tolerate.  Falcon turned himself in a tight circle, a deafening clatter of hooves against stone.  The unattainable leather reins snapped with Falcon’s movements, jerking again out of Amelle’s reach.  Another, particularly vehement curse gritted out through her teeth, and Amelle told herself quite firmly that no matter how badly she _wanted_ to, smacking the horse’s hindquarter in hopes of jerking him out of this particular fit of pique—okay, bone-deep terror—was _not_ the route to take.  A spooked horse was bad enough; she didn’t need a stampeding one into the bargain, and that was enough to induce Amelle to keep her damned wits about her.

“Calm _down_ , you big lummox,” she growled. But Falcon only screeched another shrill cry, shying with enough force that one of Amelle’s stirrups flung upward and over her saddle, where the reins twisted hopelessly around the iron.

_Shit._

“Hawke!”

Amelle lifted her head and squinted through the rain sliding mercilessly into her eyes—her hat had fallen back and its strap now rested against her neck—to find Isabela coming down the bridge on Falcon’s other side, arms low, hands outstretched.  Behind her, Fenris and Varric led the horses away from the bridge, hopefully to tether them somewhere safe.  Safer, anyway.

Isabela reached up to grab hold of Falcon’s bridle, but the horse jerked back and to the side, his left shoulder shoving Amelle too close to the bridge’s ledge, sending her kneecap slamming hard into stone.  Water frothed and rushed below, more than enough incentive for Amelle to check her balance and  maneuver herself away from the ledge.

“I need his reins!” Isabela shouted above the storm’s roar from Falcon’s other side.

But the thin strips of leather were tangled beyond help.  Instead, Amelle pulled her satchel over her head and flung it over Falcon’s back to Isabela.  For a horrible moment, Amelle thought she’d thrown the bag too hard, but Isabela’s hand shot up, snatching the long leather strap.  Amelle had long known Isabela could be fast, but watching her move so easily, so quickly out of Falcon’s way as he bolted forward and shied back, as he swung his hindquarters one way and then another was like nothing she’d ever seen.  Isabela moved like smoke, never venturing far from the horse’s shoulder—and then, in a blur of movement, she’d slipped the satchel strap over Falcon’s head, a makeshift lead.  Falcon still snorted, still tossed his head, still pawed at the ground, but he was in steadier hands than hers for the moment.

Amelle took an unsteady step, water swirling around her ankles now as she fought her way up the incline.  Isabela had Falcon, and Amelle was left with shaking hands and legs trembling beneath her.

Then she heard it.  A roar.  A rumbling, rushing roar that had nothing to do with thunder.  Amelle glanced to her right and her breath caught—the rush of water against land, a churning brown froth of water and dirt and detritus.  So much water.  All of it, coming from Lake Calenhad—they’d not only had a storm following them, but this as well.

_Oh, no._

“Go!” Amelle yelled.  She nearly planted her hands on Falcon’s hind end and pushed, for all the good it would have done her. She landed a smack on Falcon’s hindquarters and the horse let out another sharp neigh, but when Isabela pulled _,_ the horse followed, perhaps finally realizing the genuine distress they were in.

Water swirled around Amelle’s knees now—when had it gotten so high?—and she reached out to grab something, anything, even Falcon’s tail would have helped her keep her feet.  But Falcon and Isabela were on higher ground now, and Amelle was left with cold water rushing around her, pushing her along with the current.  

Everything that happened after that happened too quickly.

Amelle fought for purchase as her booted feet slid against the old stonework, water rushing around her legs.  From her right, there came a roar.  Thunder, maybe—at least, she hoped it was thunder and not something worse.  And Amelle knew precisely what “something worse” could be.  Maybe it was just that the rain was simply falling harder now.  Maybe—

She looked up again to find Fenris standing at the end of the bridge, features taut and furious, despite looking for all the world like a bedraggled cat.

“Hawke!” came his hoarse shout. 

Icy water soaked into her coat, filling her boots, making them heavy—making _her_ heavy, too heavy to walk, to move.  Amelle needed to _move_.  She blinked the rain out of her eyes, but it clung stubbornly to her lashes, coursed down her neck.  

Fenris edged closer, arm outstretched.  “Take my hand!”  

She saw, then, that a rope had been wound around his waist, and Varric was even then knotting it around the base of a tree.

The water was to her thighs now, rushing above the bridge’s low ledges.  She struggled to take another step, flinging her arm out desperately.

He was so far away.  An arm’s length?  Two?  Too far.

The roar grew louder, louder, _louder_ , until it was upon her; the rush of water knocked Amelle hard to her left, her legs aching with cold and impact as one ankle slammed hard into the stone ledge, now submerged.

“Hawke!” Fenris yelled again.  He took another step closer.  Another.

The frigid water rose, chest-high now and pushing Amelle into its current; she gritted her teeth and—

Fenris waded closer, the water up to his knees, hand outstretched; behind him, Varric and Isabela held the rope, feeding the length little by little—

Sopping wool weighted her down as she tried to reach out to Fenris’ hand; one foot slipped, and another wave of water rushed over the middle of the bridge, pushing her up, up and over the ledge, into the current.  She kicked against the force of it, tried to swim, but her coat was too heavy, pulling her down as water soaked into the wool.  For one terrifying moment, water rose over her head as the current sucked her under with scarcely enough time to take a breath.  She kicked again, hard, and with burning lungs and cold-numb fingers, Amelle released the toggle clasps on her coat and shrugged out of it as her head broke the water’s surface, gulping in air as she did.

The current swept Amelle along with it until she saw, jutting out from the side of the bank, a thick tree-root laid bare as the water washed away the dirt encasing it.  Willing her aching, exhausted limbs to act, she thrust one arm out as the root passed overhead, the fingers of one hand and then the other wrapping tightly around the dark, knotted twist of root.  The river still pulled at her, still buffeted her with tree limbs and other detritus, but she, for the moment, was more or less still.

Trying to swim against the current was lunacy; that much Amelle was confident of.  But maybe— _maybe_ she could make it to the other bank.  The side she clung to now was still too high above her head to reach, though for all the river was rising higher and higher, that could change at any moment.

Wet fingers slipped upon the even wetter tree root.

 _Whatever you’re going to do,_ she thought, adjusting her grip and holding on tighter, _best think of something quick._

Her friends were looking for her— _had_ to be looking for her, so she tipped her head back and yelled as loudly as she could, against the storm, against the roaring water, “I’m here!  _I’m here!_ ”  

Before Amelle could shout again, though, a rush of water surged over her head, forcing water and silt up her nose and into her ears and mouth and down her throat, forcing her to either swallow or inhale.  She coughed and spat as the roots slid and slipped slowly her grasp again, the thin, twisting end of the root made too slick by water and mud.  The river surged again and pulled Amelle with it, the twining end of the root slipping from her fingers.

Again she kicked, over and over, not sure whether she was making any headway at all, when Amelle’s legs slammed hard into something solid and unyielding, a rock formation that otherwise probably would have jutted out from the water, but for now lurked beneath the brown, cloudy surface. The river pushed her over it, but her foot—her ankle, more precisely—caught, lodged somehow, and as the river pulled at her, as it twisted her body with the current, pain screamed up her leg until spots danced before her eyes, until she was breathless with it.  Amelle tried kicking, tried wiggling her foot free, but she was well and truly caught in a current of rising water.

When she heard Fenris’ shout her name, Amelle was all but certain she’d imagined it.  She tipped her head back to suck in a breath of air to find him standing above and somewhat behind her on the bank; the length of rope was no longer wound around his waist, though he was in the process of wrapping it about his arm from shoulder to wrist, before climbing down past the edge of the higher bank and lowering himself into the water to his waist.  Above, Varric and Isabela still held onto the rope; bracing his legs against the bank, he stretched one arm out—close, nearly close enough for her to reach.

“Take my hand!” he shouted.

“I’m—”  Another surge of water rushed over her, up her nose, into her mouth.  Amelle choked and spat it out again.  “I’m caught!” she yelled.  “Something’s—I’m caught!”

She was caught, and the water was still rising.

Fenris looked up and yelled to Isabela and Varric, “More rope!”

They obliged him with several more feet and Amelle could do nothing but watch as Fenris carefully unwound the rope from his arm, never loosening his grip.

“What—what are you—” Amelle sputtered and spat again.  “What are you _doing?_ ”

Fenris turned furious eyes on her.  “You are not drowning here today.”  Once the rope was loose, he kept hold on his end, tossing the remaining length her way.  It took three tries before Amelle’s fingers closed around the thick twine; she wrapped it around her hands as Fenris lowered himself further into the water, holding onto the rope like the lifeline it was.

The water was up to her chin now, and Amelle had to tilt her head back to speak.  “What in the Void are you _doing?_ ”  Oh, but she knew.  She saw.  Moving hand over hand, Fenris used the rope to make his way closer to her.  

“You are not,” he growled out again, “drowning today.”  And then he was there, soaked through and livid, hanging on to the rope, now drawn taut.  Tendons stood out in stark relief in his hands, his wrists, his forearms, but his grip didn’t slip, didn’t falter.

“Neither are you!” Amelle yelled, her voice ragged, as if her throat were coated with silt.  “I didn’t—” Water sloshed into her mouth and she spat and coughed, tilting her head back.  “I didn’t pour all that energy into saving your life,” she yelled, “to have you throw it away now, you _idiot_!”

The look Fenris shot her before drawing in a deep breath and disappearing beneath the surface of the dark, frothy water was too uncomfortably eloquent for Amelle’s liking.  The river closed over Fenris, dark water swallowing his pale hair until nothing remained but the rain pelting Amelle’s face, and the churning river, slowly rising.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra thanks to Swaps for filling gaps in my horse knowledge, and Jen the Awesome for the flash flood info. <3


	15. Chapter 15

Fenris stared uncomprehendingly at the churning water.  Hawke had been there—right _there_ —and then she wasn’t.

No, it hadn’t happened as quickly as that; indeed, every second Hawke’s horse refused to calm stretched into hours as inch by inch the water crept up her legs.  It had been Varric who’d handed him the rope to tie about his waist, and he’d been close—so _close._

Then the water surged up, a frothing wall of dirt and rock and broken off bits of tree limbs and roots, and carried her away with it as if she were no more than another storm-ravaged bough.  

In that instant before she’d been swept away, Hawke’s eyes, trained on his, widened until the whites of her eyes showed around green irises.  She flung one arm out, grasping for him even as the current’s pull dragged her over the bridge, until the dark water swallowed Hawke entirely.

There was no time.  _No time._

“Get all the rope you can,” Fenris barked, pulling the rope free from around his waist as he clambered back onto the bank.  He broke into a run and freed Agrippa from the tree where she’d been tethered.

“Right behind you, elf,” Varric answered, looping a coil of rope across his body.  “Rivaini—”

“Catching up the second this beast is calmed down,” came Isabela’s terse reply as Falcon snorted and stamped the wet ground.  _“Go.”_

Hoisting himself upon Agrippa, Fenris pushed the mare off.  From the corner of his eye he spied Varric upon Cedric, keeping pace.  The two followed the river’s flow, shouting Hawke’s name as they rode.  Agrippa’s hoofbeats thundered through him as they wove through trees, but still Fenris kept an eye on the river, an eye out for Hawke.  He strained his ears for the sound of her voice, calling her name again.  She was not lost, _would not be lost_ until—

A sliver of sound came up from his left, something that wasn’t the river’s rush or the pounding of Agrippa’s hooves, or every rasping breath in his lungs.  Turning his body and pulling Agrippa’s reins, Fenris wheeled to the left, closer to the riverbank, eyes scanning the brown water rushing so furiously, when he spied Hawke amid the churning current.  A smooth dome of rock jutted up from the surface—Hawke had wrapped one arm around it, but the other flailed, as if she were trying desperately to tread water and failing.  Dark water lapped at her face as she tilted her head back further and further, fighting the current that threatened to swallow her.

He reined Agrippa to a stop and leapt off as Varric caught up.  “Find her?”

Fenris gave a terse nod and held his arms out, catching the coil of rope Varric threw.  He began winding the rope all around Agrippa’s saddle, under the billet straps and around the horn, crossing it over her chest and around her girth, crafting a makeshift harness.

“Take her around that tree,” he snapped, yanking the other end of the rope free.  Fenris shucked his coat and twisted the length around his arm from shoulder to palm, the rope biting through the thin material of his shirt.  Wordlessly, Varric took Agrippa’s reins and took her around the other side of the pine and tethered her there.  “It should distribute the weight better.  When I have Hawke—”

“Pull,” the dwarf said, taking up a length of rope.  “Got it.”

There came the pound of hoofbeats—Isabela on Tango, leading a much steadier Falcon.  She dismounted smoothly and took no time securing both horses.  Looking from Fenris to Varric and nodding once, Isabela took up the same length of rope Varric held.

“Lowering you down, then?” she asked. At Fenris’ nod, she looped the length around her hands; when she looked up again, her lips had curled into a confident smirk that left her jaw too tight and didn’t quite reach her eyes.  “Careful then, sweet thing. And hurry—this isn’t Hawke’s idea of a relaxing bath.”

Fenris stood upon the bank and when Hawke looked up, when she saw him, fear ebbed in favor of relief for the span of half a heartbeat.  But the water continued rising.  Isabela and Varric fed Fenris rope and he began his descent.  

The bank was steep and, worst of all, slick.  Thick black mud sucked and pulled at his boots, offering no purchase as he fought and slid his way down the bank.  One misstep sent him slipping forward with such force the rope pulled taut and bit hard into his arm, burning him.  The snap of pain bored through the sodden, aching chill that had by that point soaked into him, clearing his mind well enough for the moment that he managed to step more carefully.

It was not a gradual, gentle slope into shallow and then deeper waters.  Fenris waded in up to the waist, the river’s biting cold pulsing even deeper than the chill rain that had soaked into his skin.  Holding tight to the rope, he reached out to her—she was an arm’s length away, maybe more.  Even with the current, if she pushed off the rock he could reach her.  He could catch her.  He _would._

“Take my hand!”

Before she could answer, before she could _move,_ the current pulsed and twisted; the water sucked Hawke under in a flurry of bubbles.

Fenris went cold.  Colder.  _“Hawke!”_

But one pale hand and then another reached up and, gripping the smooth rock face, Hawke pulled herself above the current again, sputtering and coughing.  And Fenris breathed again.  

“I’m caught!”  The water that had only been up to her chin before now danced beneath her lower lip and she strained to keep her head above the churning surface.  She tipped her head back and yelled through blue lips and chattering teeth, “Something’s—I’m caught!”

Caught.

_Caught._

“More rope!” Fenris snarled over his shoulder.

Another rush of water coursed over Hawke’s head.  She sputtered and spat, then shouted again over the roar of the flood.  “What are you _doing?_ ”

No time to think, to deliberate.  There was only the knowledge, the _certainty_ he would not let her drown; he would not fail her.  Perhaps Hawke saw him looking hard at the rope, wondering if the idea spawned in the wake of this new development was mad enough to work, or if it would only serve to get them both killed.  Perhaps she already knew she might die if he tried, but would most certainly die if he didn’t.  

“You are not drowning here today,” he shouted, as if saying the words aloud made them fact.

Unwinding the rope from his arm, Fenris met Hawke’s eyes and held her gaze, not looking too hard at the tint of blue at her lips.  He threw the rope once, but she was too late, too clumsy grabbing for it, and the river pulled the end out of her reach.  Fenris pulled in the length again, threw it again.  Again.  _Again._  

And then her hands closed around the length.  Hawke wrapped the slack around her hands, holding tight to the rope, using it to keep her head above water.

Fenris lowered himself fully into the river—the chill of it stole his breath—and, gripping the rope, he slowly, hand over hand, pulled himself to Hawke.   The force of the current pushed and pulled at him, battering his body with rocks, with twigs, with the force of the water itself, pulling, _pulling_ until his fingers grew raw and cramped around the rope. But at the other end was Hawke, face pale and eyes wide and disbelieving, the twine biting hard into her hands.  

Water slapped Hawke’s face as she spoke, and she coughed hard, then glared, yelling at him through blue-tinged lips.  “What in the Void are you _doing?_ ”

What _was_ he doing?  It would have been far easier to claim ignorance in answer to such a question, but Fenris knew precisely what he was doing.  And it was _madness_.  

“You are not,” he all but snarled, “drowning today.”

“Neither are you!” she shouted back, eyes snapping with sharp defiance, even though her voice as raw as his hands. “I didn’t—“  Water surged over her head and she pulled anew on the rope, fighting to keep her head above the current.  “I didn’t pour all that energy into saving your life to have you throw it away now, you _idiot_!”

Hawke’s words rang in his ears as Fenris breathed in, filling his lungs and lowering himself beneath the churning water.  She would not die here today.

Silt and rock swirled all around; Fenris dared not open his eyes beneath the water’s surface.  In the darkness, rocks and tree limbs battered his back; pebbles like tiny bullets struck his arms, his back, shoulders, head, the backs of his legs as he held tight to Hawke’s waist, blindly seeking out what had ensnared her.  

Something sharp struck him between the shoulder blades as he followed Hawke’s calf down to her ankle, the shock of the blow forcing air past his lips. Shaking off the sensation, Fenris sent one hand out searching—abruptly he realized the rock Hawke been clinging to was part of a larger piece that had split down the middle, forming a V.  Her foot was lodged in the narrow base, pinned in place by a heavy bough that had been wedged there by the strength of the current.

More air fought past Fenris’ closed lips as he pulled at the tree limb, thick enough that he could barely wrap a hand around it.  He fought with the limb, twisting it as he pulled.  Likewise, he fought against the current as it pushed him off balance.  He tightened his grip on Hawke

Fenris lost yet more precious air; it streamed out his nose, past his gritted teeth.

Leaves rasped his face as he grappled with the bough, pulling and twisting and fighting the force of the river behind him.  It was too large, too unwieldy; its bark scraped and caught at him.  But when Fenris’ fingers slid across the jagged end where the bough had split from the tree, he _pulled_.  The air was all but gone from his lungs, but still he pulled—

The limb twisted sharply in his grip, hitting him hard as the current caught the leafy end like a boat’s sail and carried it away 

His fingers found Hawke’s ankle, wedged between the rock—badly twisted, he could tell even with closed eyes and frantic, searching fingers.

She had the rope in her hands, but freeing her had the potential to push her— _them_ —further along the current, away from the thing that was both her prison and sanctuary.  

_There was no time._

Fenris’ lungs burned and lyrium flared beneath his skin in response, both to his determination and his body craving, _screaming_ for air.  Pulling her foot free—no time to be gentle, no time to be careful—Fenris did not relinquish his hold on Hawke, even as the river buffeted them both, trying to claim them.  

When Fenris broke the water’s surface, it was with a gasp.  One arm remained locked around Hawke, as much to keep her from being lost again to the current as to keep from being swept away himself.  His other hand found the rope, fingers curling tightly around it; above, Varric barely waited for them to get a full grip on the tether before shouting “Now!” back at Isabela.  After a moment, they began the slow trek across the river.

The current still plucked and pulled at them, still battered them with tiny projectiles, but Hawke’s two-handed grip showed no indication of loosening and though her face was pale, determination had settled in the line of her jaw.

They neither of them would die this day.

A long, slow process, Agrippa, Varric, and Isabela pulled them up to the safety of the bank, where the river—though still rising— was now well below them.  Fenris released Hawke in time for her to lurch to her hands and knees.  He bent at the waist, breathing hard, spitting out the silt that felt as if it lined his mouth.  Hawke’s hands fisted in the grass as she spasmed through a series of hoarse, ragged coughs—water came forth in spurts and mouthfuls until the tenor of the cough changed and Hawke began to retch, shoulders hunching as she vomited forth filthy, dark water, coughing until her body shook with the force of it.

She stayed like that a moment or more, trembling with each labored, rasping breath. Perhaps magebane had saved her life that morning, but the poison had in no way proved beneficial since then.  Hawke was still without her healing abilities, and would be for several more hours, by his count.  

With a sigh, Hawke bowed her head to rest upon her forearms.  “Thanks,” she mumbled, though her voice sounded nothing at all like her voice—ragged and battered and hoarse.  She took a deep, rattling breath, her body tensing suddenly before she exhaled in a slow wheeze.  Another breath, just as loud, just as troubling. 

But she was _breathing._   Fenris shifted his weight—the cold had sunk down deep into his bones to create an ache rivaled only by the numerous spots on his body that had been a target for countless rocks and jagged tree limbs and other things probably best not thought about.  But his relief alleviated that ache—relief they’d both lived, relief he’d not failed despite such a mad endeavor.

But in the shadow of that relief, a tiny sprout of something else, something _uncomfortable_ grew.

Would he have done such a thing, made such an attempt, took such a risk had it not been Hawke in the river?  He… wasn’t sure.  Perhaps.  Perhaps not.  He could not remember a time when mere indebtedness had pushed him to act so recklessly and to his own detriment.    

Hawke breathed again, coughed again, and again spat more water out.  And in the pit of his stomach, that uncomfortable realization unfurled tiny leaves, stretched out tiny roots.  She pushed herself to her knees, wet, bedraggled, and looking like the Void itself—but _alive_.  The determination in her jaw hadn’t faded, either.  “We’ve got to move.”

Frowning, Varric nodded, then jerked his chin at Isabela.  “Rivaini found a cave on the map—it’s not far from here.”

“It’s lacking in feather beds and running water,” said Isabela, “but it looks to be on higher ground and has to be a damn sight dryer than any of us are right now.”

Varric crouched and peered into Hawke’s face.  Where she’d been only pale before, her skin had now taken on a grey cast. “You think you can make it?”

“I can make it just fine,” she said, gritting the words out through clenched teeth as she attempted to stand.  Fenris stepped forward, catching her elbow before she could attempt to place weight on her injured ankle—shifting her position was enough to make Hawke suck in a breath and swear, even as that breath resulted in an explosion of choking coughs; she bent double, coughing hard as her icy fingers scythed into Fenris’ forearm.  

Varric and Isabela exchanged a dubious look.

“Agrippa can carry us both,” Fenris said.  “Tether Falcon to Tango and we will be on our way.”

Isabela looked back at Falcon, then to Agrippa, standing placidly despite the rain still pouring down, despite the thunder, despite everything that had transpired since that morning.  “She’s a big, sturdy girl.  What do you say, Hawke?  Not the worst idea I’ve heard all day.”

Hawke… did not argue.  Still gripping his arm with surprising force, she stood perfectly still, head bowed; after several long moments, she gave the briefest, most imperceptible nod and released her hold on his arm.  With that, Fenris heaved himself into Agrippa’s saddle, pulling Hawke up as Varric and Isabela, ever mindful of her injured foot, helped her settle in behind him.  

Linking her arms about his waist, Hawke leant against Fenris’ back and rested her head upon his shoulder. And though they were both soaked to the skin, cold, and redolent of mud and filthy river water, Fenris found he felt nothing but relief at Hawke’s weight pressed to his spine.  He did not care that her arms gripped him tighter than absolutely necessary, given Agrippa’s cautious pace.  Hawke’s wheezing breath was warm against his neck, and her wet, rattling coughs rumbled against his back; she had never been so close to him before—he never would have permitted it before—but now that proximity only served to remind him she was _alive_. 

Isabela, armed with the map, led them through the driving rain, away from the river and onward toward higher ground.

#

The cave was precisely where the map stated, dry and, more importantly, uninhabited.  The cramped entrance—Fenris dismounted and walked Agrippa through the narrow channel of rock, though Hawke remained on the mare’s back—opened up to a wide, high-ceilinged cave that would provide more than adequate shelter for the night.  Watery daylight illuminated the cave just enough to reveal soot-dark smudges across the ceiling marking the travelers who had sought shelter and warmth before them; the skeletal remains of a fire long cold stood sentry below.  

It took little time to collect dried detritus along the cave floor to start a fire, fed—after some convincing on Isabela’s part—by several dry crossbow bolts and a tangle of ivy found crawling along one of the cave’s interior walls.  Throughout these preparations, Hawke had sat quietly upon her damp bedroll.  She shivered in front of the little fire, her wheezing breaths made louder in the cavernous space.

When Fenris and Varric ventured back into the storm to find wood to dry for the fire later, two of the bolts that had not been sacrificed for firewood killed dinner. He and the dwarf returned with two rabbits and a pheasant in addition to the mostly dry tinder they’d recovered from beneath the thickest pines, protected from the rain beneath a bed of needles.  

Thunder still pounded and lightning flashed outside and the rain was unforgiving as ever, a steady rush of water punctuated by wet drips at the mouth of the cave. Even the horses seemed mostly content; soft nickers and low sighs bounced off the stone walls, echoing in the firelit darkness.  Before long, game roasted over the newly-fed fire and Hawke, having taken a dose of lyrium potion, was resting fitfully on her bedroll in somewhat drier clothes Isabela had likely assisted with during their absence; she’d done the same for herself, and their rain-soaked, mud-streaked clothes were draped across rocks jutting out from the wall.  Fenris and Varric followed their example; though the mud’s sharp peaty scent still clung to his skin, changing into dry clothes was a marked improvement.

Hawke’s ankle was well and truly broken—something Isabela had also seen to it in the meantime, but beneath the white strips of bandage the joint was swollen, purple, and hot to the touch.

“I don’t get it,” murmured Isabela as Varric turned the makeshift spit; fat from the pheasant dripped down into the fire, spitting and hissing.  “She’s taken the lyrium.  Shouldn’t _that_ —” she jerked her chin at Hawke’s injury “—have gone down a bit by now?”

Fenris shook his head.  “When she was testing the magebane, even after taking the lyrium potion, it took time for her mana to fully replenish itself.”  Her color was marginally better, but every breath still wheezed and rattled beneath the crackle of the fire.  “It took time for my injuries to heal; it will likely take less time for Hawke to recover, but it will still take time.”

Isabela frowned, then exhaled on a sigh.  “I suppose it’s lucky that’s the worst to happen to her after a scrape like that.”

Fenris silently agreed.

The night wore on.  Although Hawke refused food when she roused—never for very long—Varric set aside a small portion of roasted meat for her later.  Isabela dozed while Varric fed pine into the fire.  The dwarf yawned widely, rubbing wearily at his eyes.

“I will take first watch,” Fenris said.

“You’re kidding me, elf,” he scoffed.  “After a day like today?”

_Especially after a day like today._

Fenris only shook his head in reply.  What could he tell him? That he was accustomed to long flights on little sleep?  That the lyrium in his skin had particular advantages?  That he had no wish to sleep just now?  These were all things he had no desire to explain.

“I will take first watch,” he said again, firmly.

Though Varric looked inclined to argue, after a moment he shrugged and lay back on his rumpled bedroll.  In minutes his low, rumbling snores drowned out even Hawke’s labored breaths.

In the relative silence, if silence were the right word considering the horses’ muted, content sounds and Varric’s snoring, Fenris frowned down at Hawke.  Her lips were pale and parted as she breathed.  Her fingers twitched against the bedroll as her eyes moved rapidly beneath their lids—in the Fade, perhaps.

He owed her much.  He knew this.  And yet.  _And yet._   With only the sounds of the storm outside, a crackling fire, and sleeping companions to ease away the stark silence of the cave, Fenris found it far more difficult to explain his earlier actions as… repayment.  He had not risked his own life—and it was folly to pretend that wasn’t precisely what he’d done—for the sake of an… obligation.  It had not been duty spurring his actions, but worry.  Even fear.

There were few of his acquaintance he’d have acted so recklessly to save.  Fenris knew this to be true; it was a truth he disliked confronting.

Fenris breathed in, willing the lyrium in his skin to shift and waken; it flared without a stutter, bathing Hawke’s face in blue-white light, an echo of the power that had poured forth from her hands more than once.

Without stopping to worry about the wisdom of the act, he rested his fingertips upon the top of Hawke’s wrist.

She had saved his life without compunction.

She had taken him into her home while he healed.

They did not have time to waste while she recovered, even with the aid of her magic.

With his exhale, Fenris sent lyrium trickling into Hawke, watching her face until the color returned to her cheeks, her lips, until her breathing was not quite so labored.  Fenris knew little enough about a spirit healer’s abilities beyond what Hawke had explained to him—she would doubtless have to tend to her own ankle when she woke, but he would offer what assistance he could now, and they would move on come first light.

For now, though, they were all exhausted and drained from the day’s events.  It was time to rest, to recover.

Fenris cast another glance at Hawke while she slept.  Her brow creased in what was very likely discomfort as her fingers twitched against the blanket spread over her.  Moving silently, he freed his own bedroll from his pack and unrolled it near the fire—near Hawke.  

She would yet be well.  He knew this.  And yet, Fenris still found reassurance in every slow, wheezing breath.

#

Amelle dreamed.

_Water, cold and dark, forced its way into her mouth, up her nose, past her eyelids, into her ears.  It pressed upon her, crushed her, forced precious air past her lips, streaming out like a string of priceless silver beads—_

_It held her—_

_Held her down.  Pushed her down.  Deeper and deeper, it clawed at her, pulling and pulling and pulling and when she opened her mouth to scream it pushed into her mouth, down her throat, filling her lungs—_

_Killing her._

_Beneath the water’s roar, beneath the pounding of her own heartbeat, there came a whisper of taunting laughter.  But when she opened her eyes to look, gritty water pushed past her eyes.  When she lifted her hands she found herself fighting the current.  She tried to swim, swim up—up, up to the surface, up to the air,_ up _._

_A clawed hand held her fast, dragged her down._

_No._

_No, please._

_“Poor little mageling,” a voice whispered, crooned in her waterlogged ears.  Long fingers tightened around her ankle until bones snapped, still pulling her down, forever pulling her_ down— 

_“I can end this,” it breathed in her ears, in her head, all around.  “Only I can end this.  Give yourself to me, for I am your strength, your salva—”_

_Beyond the edge of her senses, white light pulsed, pushed back the dark, drove back the choking press of water, silenced the whispers.  She breathed in air, clean and sweet, breathed in light, let it warm her.  She breathed in and found her mana, bright and alive as it swirled and sparked inside her, a balm over the memory of feeling too hollowed out and scratched over, too empty, too dry.  Color joined white light, flares of healing blue, of flame-bright orange, all tangling and twisting together, warming her skin without burning it, sinking into her, pushing away the foul water and filling her lungs with breath._

_Phantom hands over hers.  Warm.  Gentle.  They held, but did not grasp._

_“Be careful, spirit healer. You must be more careful.”_

When she woke it was with a start and a gasp—to darkness.  For a mad, terrifying moment, dream and reality intertwined and the tangle of shadows was too like the dark water that had tried to claim her in the Fade.  The memory of that voice in her head, whispering to her, promising her—that _thing_ feeding off her fear and making a meal of it, of her.  But with every breath—every painful breath—her mind cleared, and as her eyes adjusted to the darkness the shadows ebbed away until she made out the craggy ceiling above, lit by the jumping, shuddering flames of a dying campfire.

She tried to sit up and immediately wished she hadn’t.

A bolt of white-hot pain lanced up her right leg, eclipsing the scraped over ache in her lungs, the throbbing rawness in her throat.  With another gasp and barely smothered curse, Amelle sat up—this time, _carefully_ —and prodded curiously at her quite-possibly-broken foot.

After a few moments, “quite-possibly-broken” became “most-definitely-broken” and Amelle drew in another healing breath; her mana, bright and renewed, surged and crashed like ocean waves beneath her breast and when she channeled and twisted the energy, blue-white light pulsed hard from her hands as she set them upon her—

“Hawke.”

As quickly as the energy pushed forward, it died with a stutter as she glanced up to find Fenris, looking rumpled and… angry?  She blinked, looking closer.  No.  No, this wasn’t anger, this was… concern, perhaps.  He sat upon his bedroll, which had been pulled close to hers.  And then she realized _he_ was close—so close the low-burning fire lit his eyes as shadows danced across his face.  She glanced down at his bedroll, and then up again.  As she did, some close kin to comprehension settled like mist upon his features and he sat up straighter, subtly increasing the distance between them.

He cleared his throat and looked into the fire.  “You were… unwell.”  He furrowed his brow as Amelle laid a hand upon her chest.  “Your breathing was…” 

“It hurt.”  The words made her stop—her voice sounded so very _wrong_ to her own ears.  Rough and hoarse, as if she’d been screaming for years.  

“I am not surprised.”  A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Are you… at all recovered?”  He cast a glance at Isabela and Varric, sound asleep.  “You’ve only slept a few hours.”

“Better,” she replied, taking one slow breath after another.  Mana swirled, vibrant and alive, in that place deep within her, so warm and bright it almost erased the memory of how scraped-over and hollowed-out she’d felt. “Definitely bet—”  But the word died in her throat. Her disorientation upon waking had twisted and tangled hopelessly with the dream she’d woken from.  But that muddiness cleared into focus so sharp it made her stomach lurch.  The dream of drowning fell away, leaving only the memory of the event, furious green eyes and hoarse shouts forbidding her what had seemed inevitable at the moment.

She brought her head up and turned to stare at Fenris.  “…You.”

Confusion skittered across his face, dark brows rising a fraction.  “I?”

“You… saved my life.”

The expression did not change.  “As you have mine.”

Amelle opened her mouth to protest, but Fenris cut her off with a slicing gesture and a brisk shake of his head. “We will not discuss it further.  You must rest and recover.”

“…Thank you.”  She nearly grimaced. Those words were insufficient, paltry, pale.  But no other words, no _better_ ones, would form.  She swallowed against her aching throat and said them again, as if repeating the sentiment might lend it more weight, might _mean_ more.

Fenris blinked, as if those were the very last words he’d expected to come out of her mouth.  “You… are welcome.  But you will do better to thank me by healing your injuries.  Your ankle—”

 _“Fenris.”_ She pushed his name past the rawness in her throat, reaching out to clasp her hand around his.  

He stared at her hand for several long seconds.  Long enough for the warmth in his fingers to ease away the chill in hers.  Then a muscle jumped in his jaw and Fenris carefully eased his hand away, pushing to his knees and tending the fire until a shuddering flames flickered up from the embers.  He set thin pine branches atop the little blaze; the long green needles snapped and curled, thin twists of smoke floating upward.

“Thank me by healing yourself, Hawke,” Fenris said evenly, once the fire was tended, flames jumping warmly to chase away the encroaching chill.  “If you wish to show me your gratitude, that is the best way to do it.”


	16. Chapter 16

Hawke slept through the night, through every watch change, through the storm that did not taper off until nearly dawn.  And when Fenris found the opportunity to do so, he released lyrium into the sleeping mage.  The poison was gone from her system, he knew, but as her own mana returned—at a trickle, he suspected—her breath cleared, but too slowly.  He did not think it was his imagination her color improved after such an infusion, nor was he inclined to think it a flight of fancy her breath was clearer.

It meant he did not sleep as much as their companions, and he had to be particularly surreptitious when he attempted such a thing during Varric or Isabela’s watch—easier said than done—but by morning, a slow, steady drizzle fell outside and Hawke’s lungs were all but clear as she sat by the low-flickering fire, scowling at her ankle as she poured healing magic into it.

Hawke had explained to him the way her… particular link to the Fade meant her body kept itself well; a mage’s mana was connected to their breath, and a spirit healer’s even more so. It had made sense that with increased lyrium, every breath Hawke took would allow her lungs to recover, however gradually, but her ankle would not recover with such passive measures.  The swelling was going down, but gradually despite the brightness of the glow radiating from Hawke’s hands.

“What I’m getting from all this,” drawled Varric as he ran a cloth over Hawke’s revolver—one of the few things she hadn’t lost to the river; her coat and hat were little more than a distant memory, but the weapon had been left to dry out overnight, and Varric had spent most of the morning cleaning it while Hawke tended her ankle. “Is that we might be hanging around here—”

“We are absolutely _not_ doing that,” Hawke ground out.  The light from her hands pulsed brightly for a second before subsiding, echoing her tone.  “I can mend it.”

Fenris had—wisely, he believed—refrained from commenting, until the dwarf shot him a shrewd look.  “What do you say, elf?  Think that ankle’ll be travel-ready after Hawke heals it up?”

If Varric’s expression was shrewd, Hawke’s was positively mutinous.  _“That,_ ” she cut in, “is hardly here nor there.  Fenris’ injuries were far more extensive than a broken ankle.  He needed healing _and_ rest.”

Fenris’ expression must have betrayed his skepticism, for Hawke’s eyebrow lifted as surely as if he’d challenged her as overtly as Varric had.  “We haven’t got time, and the three of you know it,” she said sharply.  “I can knit the bones together again, and when we stop to rest I’ll apply another round of healing until it’s… properly mended.  And then,” she added, her expression turning less defiantly mutinous and more privately amused as she met Fenris’ eyes, “it’s a matter of letting the joint heal without it stiffening up.”

“I wonder if your healer will be as adamant on the subject of overexertion as mine was,” he replied dryly.

“I doubt it,” Hawke replied mildly, turning her attention back to her injury.  The violent color had faded and the swelling was gradually subsiding. “Besides, I’ll be sitting the whole while.  Hardly exertion at all, never mind overexertion.”

Isabela flicked a tiny twig into the fire and knocked back what remained of the coffee in her small tin mug.  “Much as you know I agree with you,” Isabela said, addressing Varric, “Hawke’s got a point.  We need to get to Highever, and if I thought we could make it there in a day, I’d have said so by now.  As it is there’ll be no point in staying the night in West Hill; we’ll make it there by midday and can be off again in a few hours.  We can probably make up _some_ time, but we’re not reaching Highever before tomorrow, and that’s if the weather holds,” she added, casting a dark glower at the cave’s entrance.  “My bet is we’re going to have to stop somewhere in the Coastlands tonight.”

Varric read the question that sketched itself across Fenris’ face.  “Can’t take the Imperial Highway up to Highever,” he said with a shrug.  “Past West Hill, we’re going to have to take the roads up through the Coastlands.  But there are a few villages between there and Highever, so it’s not like we’re going to have to sleep on the ground again.”  The revolver now polished to gleaming, Varric presented Hawke the weapon with a flourish before sliding it into her holster while she continued healing.

“Varric’s right, though _roads_ is something of a generous term,” Isabela chimed in.  “But we’ll be on higher land and we’re crossing no rivers, so the worst we’ll have to contend with is mud.  And are you _sure_ that ankle’s going to be up to it, kitten?” she asked, casting an eye Hawke’s way as she bent over the injured joint, the planes of her face lit by the blue-white light pouring from her hands.

Hawke didn’t look up; indeed, the question barely dented her concentration.  She blew a lock of hair out of her eyes and murmured, “It’s going to be fine.”

Varric chuckled.  “Through application of brute force if necessary?”

“If that’s what it takes,” replied Hawke, refocusing her attention on the injury.

Slowly, the magic pulsing from her hands brightened until the light was white rather than blue and threads of even brighter light streamed out from her hands, circling the ankle.  Goosebumps rose in a path up Hawke’s forearms and as her magic burned brighter, those tendrils of light called to and woke the lyrium in Fenris’ skin.  Flexing his fingers, Fenris rubbed at his arms to rid himself of the prickling sensation even as he watched the bruising fade and the swelling subside.  He wondered—could not help _but_ wonder—if the appearance of his own injuries had been so strange to watch.

The magic built and built—Fenris did not miss the significant, pointed look exchanged between Varric and Isabela—until Hawke’s cheeks flushed and strands of hair stuck to her damp forehead.  Finally the light flared off in a burst and Hawke leaned back, flushed and out of breath, but she lifted the newly-healed ankle and rotated it slowly.

“Good as new,” she panted.  “Now shall we get a move on?”

#

While Varric, Isabela, and Fenris broke camp, Amelle sat, prodding gingerly at her ankle—bones and muscle were whole again, but weak and tender.  If circumstances had been different, she’d be in bed with her foot propped up, pouring healing mana into it at every opportunity, not that she was remotely inclined to admit such a thing out loud.  As it was, she’d be treating it every time they stopped.  If she wasn’t certain overt displays of magic would run the risk of bothering the other horses, she’d focus the mana there periodically while they rode, but one horse-related incident was more than enough for this trip and all subsequent trips in the near or distant future.

What had surprised Amelle, though, was how… thoroughly her mana had returned.  By the time morning had crept upon the cave, she’d woken with lungs that twinged only slightly when she inhaled, and when she sought out her mana to heal her ankle, she found it swirling and alive inside her, fully recovered.  Gone was the dry, scratched over feeling that had plagued her since even before Kinloch hold.  The moment she reached for her mana and called upon the Fade spirit that aided her healing, it crested beneath her psychic touch, blue-white light thrumming from her hands as she sent wave after wave of magic into the damaged joint.

Ought it to have replenished so quickly?  So thoroughly?  Normally, any healing energy that returned to her while she rested would have been drawn to parts of her that needed it.  Her unique connection with the Fade and the spirit that had chosen her for her particular vocation provided a sort of latent healing—she recovered from injury quickly and rarely if ever fell ill.  But even latent healing drew on mana, and it was nothing short of odd that Amelle’s lungs were clear _and_ her mana was replenished.  It would have made more sense to her to have woken feeling… drained.

It was a strange thing to be concerned about—she’d recovered from her magebane use and near-drowning too easily, too quickly.  But there it was.

Nobody else seemed terribly worried about this development, or maybe they were just thankful without wanting to poke too closely at the why of it all.  Then again, perhaps they simply didn’t realize how unusual this type of healing _was._ Had her mana just replenished itself that quickly?  Was the magebane somehow to blame?  That didn’t make any sort of logical sense, but this wasn’t the first time she’d come out of magebane poisoning feeling better than she had before she’d taken the magebane to begin with.

Brow furrowing, Amelle, ran her fingers along the curve of her ankle, sending one last wave of healing magic down into the muscle and bone before pulling on her sock and boot and cautiously pushing to her feet.  Fenris was checking Falcon’s tack and making sure her pack—her pack, which he’d loaded and strapped down himself—was secure.

“I think that’s nearly it,” Isabela announced.  “Onward and upward?”

“Anywhere you want, Rivaini,” answered Varric, “as long as it’s out of this sodding cave.”

Her answering smile was crooked and amused.  “And you said I was the one who’d complain about the missing feather beds and hot water.”

“My complaints haven’t been anywhere near that specific,” he riposted, leading Cedric out, Isabela behind him, the slow clop of hooves echoing through the cave.  “But the sooner we get to Highever, the better.”

“Highever will be a nice change of pace,” Amelle sighed as Fenris checked Falcon’s girth one last time.  She wanted to tell him he didn’t need to do that for her, that she could, at the very least, tend to her own horse.  Perhaps it was foolish; it wasn’t as if Amelle didn’t _know_ she needed to rest her foot, and it wasn’t as if she didn’t appreciate the assistance.  And yet.

“Have you been there before?”

“We have,” she replied.  “I’m of the opinion we draw better crowds in towns and smaller cities, but we do wind up in Highever now and again.”  She shot him a crooked smile.  “It always seemed a bit… refined for the likes of us.”  Fenris looked as if he wanted to ask her more, but at the last he shook his head and checked her stirrups instead. Amelle suppressed a sigh; she supposed she ought to feel as if the scales between them were balanced.  

She didn’t.  

“You don’t… you really don’t have to do that.”

His hands froze on the long strip of leather.  “My apologies,” he replied evenly, laying the stirrup and iron back in place. “I merely thought to make sure your leathers hadn’t been damaged.”  

“No, I—I only meant you… needn’t do all this for me,” she said, spreading her hands.  “I can—you’ve done so much, and I doubt you slept well last night.”

A pause, before he continued checking every strap, every buckle.  “It has been no trouble.”

They were supposed to be even now, but _nothing_ felt balanced between them—on the contrary, the weight of the debt she owed Fenris rested heavily upon her shoulders.  She was grateful, certainly.  Glad to be alive, surely.  She was thankful—immensely thankful—and while she knew he hadn’t acted alone, it had been Fenris who’d risked his life to save hers.  They weren’t emotions easily shaped into coherent thoughts and words.  She’d thanked Fenris, but the words had felt paltry, not quite matching the force of the sentiment inside her.

No one had done such a thing for her before.  Amelle had no illusions; she easily could have drowned—the river had been rising steadily, the rushing current surging over her head more and more.  Everything could have unfolded so very differently.

Balanced scales or not, it was still, Amelle recalled with a grim smile, a far cry from their first meeting.  Somehow he’d gone from threatening her to saving her, and while Amelle had been quite certain they’d moved past the attempted murder phase of their friendship, she hadn’t expected them to reach this point… whatever this point was.  It was no mean feat they’d managed such friendship at all, given the tenor of their introduction; as far as beginnings went, it hadn’t been the most auspicious.  

And yet, she could not erase from her mind the memory of Fenris tirelessly throwing her the rope until she caught it. She still saw his clenched jaw, and the… it had looked like nothing so much as _fury_ snapping in his eyes, as if he might have tamed the river with the force of his glare alone. And then he’d shouted his promise over the roar of the river, over, even, the water plugging her ears.  

_You will not drown here today._

And she hadn’t.  

Just as vivid was the remembered pressure of Fenris’ arm around her as he clung and fought against the current, holding fast as he freed her foot; the warmth of his back, pressed against her chest.  Unnerving, how natural it had felt to rest her head upon his shoulder, to have her arms locked around him. However wet and miserable they’d both been—she still stunk of river slime and was sure Fenris did as well—Amelle had held on to him entirely unselfconsciously, and still did not blush to remember it.  

If anything, she wanted to revisit the sensation, if only to see whether the reality lived up to the memory.  

Fenris had rescued her, and had been nothing short of valiant in doing so—and Amelle was _grateful_.  But, as well she knew, it was foolish to mistake gratitude for something else.  Something _more_.  She had no intention of making such a mistake.  Her plan, such as it was, would be to focus healing her ankle, carefully and deliberately turning her mind away from angry green eyes or arms that had held her with absolutely no intention of letting go, or a warm, solid back that fit far too perfectly against her.

Falcon’s stirrups and girth adjusted and Amelle’s pack strapped firmly in place, Fenris turned to face her, but after a second or two his expression turned cloudy and confused.

“You lost your coat yesterday.”

Amelle shrugged.  “And my hat.  I thought I’d be able to find some suitable replacement in West Hill.”

The frown didn’t abate; if anything, it deepened as he shook his head and shrugged out of his own duster, holding it out to her.

“What?” Amelle blurted, looking down at the proffered coat.  “Fenris, I can’t—”

“The rain has slowed, but has not stopped entirely.  Take it; I have a lighter one that will suffice.”

“I can’t take your coat, Fenris.”

The edges of Fenris’ frown darkened to nearly a scowl, but before he could reply, Isabela’s voice rang out from the mouth of the cave:  “Take the damned coat, kitten, so we can _leave_.”

Color and heat rushed to Amelle’s face.  “Well, I suppose that settles it,” she muttered as she took Fenris’ duster and clumsily pulled it on.  The shoulders were too broad and the sleeves too long, but it was warm with his body heat and, though it too smelled vaguely of river water, the coat also retained an earthy, piney scent she was starting to associate with Fenris.  

While she buttoned the duster, Fenris dug through his own pack, freeing the simple dark coat he’d worn the night they’d had dinner in Kinloch Hold and shrugging into it.  He refastened his belongings and returned tacitly to her side to give her a leg up into the saddle.  As Fenris turned toward Agrippa, his fingertips grazed Amelle’s calf—such an incidental touch, and yet her breath caught with the contact.  Perhaps it was her mana reacting to the lyrium in his skin now that she had mana to speak of.  Perhaps the light brush of his fingers came too closely on the heels of her memories.  Either way, Fenris looked up sharply.

“Are you well?”

“I am,” she answered… mostly truthfully, as she swallowed hard and pushed forward a smile.  “I’m fine.  I’ll be even better once we make it to Highever.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, his expression turning shrewd for a moment, as if he were searching for any untruth in her words.  After a moment, Fenris nodded and stepped away from Amelle and Falcon, pulling himself into Agrippa’s saddle.  

“Shall we?” Amelle asked, tilting her head towards the cave entrance.

Fenris only inclined his head, snapping the reins gently against Agrippa’s neck.  “I remain at your side.”  A beat of silence followed as they guided the horses closer to the narrow passageway.  “Figuratively speaking, at any rate.”

#

According to Hawke, West Hill had once been a military watchpoint and fortress built to guard against seafaring Orlesian forces, when invading Orlesian forces had been a threat.  Originally designed to accommodate thousands, these days it was maintained by only a few hundred.  This ought to have been enough to indicate the structure’s size, but it wasn’t until the fortress loomed on the horizon, casting a shadow across the pine-thick hills, its stones bleached white from sun, salt, and wind, did Fenris begin to appreciate the sheer size of it.  Above high walls, higher towers jutted upward defiantly, Ferelden flags atop each, whipping furiously in wind that turned both sharp and salty with every mile they’d traveled away from the Imperial Highway.  The low roar of the sea rushed beneath the wind, reminding Fenris of the last time he’d seen the sea.  It hadn’t been pleasant. 

“And we will be permitted to… stop here?” he asked, frowning as they walked into the shadow cast by high walls and higher turrets.

Hawke shot him a grin over her shoulder.  “West Hill isn’t much for comfort, but if you’re a courier or a merchant, there’s no better place to stop on this side of the Coastlands.  It’s a well-kept secret.”

“Surface dwarves started making this place a stop about five minutes after the lookouts quit looking out for Orlesian ships,” Varric added.  “If you don’t mind a hard cot in the barracks—and a lot of folks don’t—it’s a good place to get some shut-eye.  Kitchen’s usually got some sort of stew going, too.  It’s not high comfort, but it’s cheap and with merchants and couriers coming through regularly, the soldiers are able to keep in touch with the outside world a little better.”

“And the merchants get to trade with each other—handy, since not everyone gets to the Frostrock Mountains, or Kirkwall, or Starkhaven, or Rivain,” said Isabela.  “It’s turned into something of an… unofficial trading center.”

He turned his gaze back to Hawke.  “And you’ve sold here as well?”

“Occasionally,” Hawke replied.  “If we go to Highever, we usually make a point to stop at West Hill just before going through the Bannorn.”  

“You said—”

Hawke held up one finger, stopping him.  “I said, never go through the Bannorn if you haven’t got goods to trade,” she riposted with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.  “We always make sure we’ve got goods to trade.”

As far as outdated military outposts went, Fenris was sure he’d never seen one quite so busy as this.  They handed off the horses to the stablemaster and his grooms before venturing through gates that opened to a vast courtyard filled with a riot of color and smells.  Inside the yard they were greeted by line after line of carts, wagons and stalls, all of them loaded down with more spices, bolts of fabric, weaponry, leatherwork, cure-alls and trinkets than Fenris could possibly imagine.  Merchants yelled and haggled cheerfully with one another, bandying back and forth with good-natured insults and false affront alike, the volume of which drowned out even the roar of the sea.

A glance down revealed to Fenris that Hawke was still favoring her ankle, but not in any sort of obvious way.  She walked along slowly, hiding her discomfort under the appearance of leisure, still taking care not to put too much stress or strain on the joint—a realization that surprised and relieved him far more than it perhaps out to have done.  But when he looked up from her booted feet to her face, he found something that surprised him even more: rather than wearing an expression pinched in pain, Hawke’s features were spread in a wide smile as she took in the brightly colored wares and the jovial men and women shouting to be heard over one another. 

“I think I’m going to see about a coat,” she said, fingering the cuff of his duster, her smile taking on a vaguely guilty twinge.  “I’ve kept you from your own long enough.”

“Time for me to see if there’s anyone here I know,” Varric said, rocking back on his heels.

“And if there isn’t?” asked Fenris.

The dwarf shrugged.  “Then it means getting to know some people.”

“I want to see if any of these louts have any proper Orlesian perfume,” Isabela said, wrinkling her nose as she sauntered off.  “Something to kill the stink of horse.”

Fenris turned again to Hawke as she slid his duster from her shoulders and handed it to him.  “Is there nowhere here to bathe?”

Hawke shrugged, then tipped her head, silently inviting him to follow.  “There is, but it hardly makes sense to bathe here.  It’d be too much trouble to unpack a change of clothes, wash, and pack everything back up again, only to head back out on the road.”  She smiled widely enough her dimple showed.  “Why, is the delightful blend of river slime, mud, and horse not to your liking?”

With a glower, Fenris pulled on his coat as he followed Hawke’s careful steps down each row of merchants and their goods.  “That is not the case at all,” he argued.  “I was in the same water, slept in the same cave.”

“So you’re saying you smell as bad as I do,” she replied, still clearly teasing. “That would explain why we seem to prefer each other’s company.”  Her steps slowed as they passed a stall displaying shimmering trinkets.  

“Fire opals mined from Orzammar,” the dwarven merchant boasted, the moment Hawke’s eye came to rest upon a silver bracelet inlaid with brilliant orange, iridescent-flecked stones.  “A stone whose warmth and beauty are second only to your own, miss,” he added with a wink. 

Hawke flushed with pleasure at the compliment, inclining her head.  “You’re very kind—and it _is_ very pretty—but but not quite what I’m looking for.”

They continued on, meandering past stalls and carts as merchants extolled the virtues of their wares.  Some of them knew Hawke and called out to her.  A few of those remarked on her still-bedraggled appearance, but she didn’t bother explaining herself; instead she laughed and blamed her state on the rain.

All at once Fenris realized Hawke’s mask had slipped into place without him noticing; she’d once again become the merchant he’d met in Ostagar, from the cant of her head to the spread of her fingers as she waved at traders she knew and gestured at their wares.  And just as suddenly, it dawned on him there was a rift between the merchant he’d met and the woman who’d healed him, with whom he’d been traveling, the woman whose disappearance into a rushing river had scared him far more than he’d thought possible.

As their steps slowed to a stop, Fenris found the realization unsettled him.  Hawke clearly did not require his company.  His initial concern had been for her ankle, that she might overextend herself, but though Hawke was favoring it somewhat, she still wasn’t limping outright.  It was obvious had no use for his—

Then Hawke’s hand lighted upon his forearm, cutting into his thoughts.  Fenris glanced up to find her smiling politely at a merchant, her hand… quite certainly resting on his arm.  Her fingers curled into the leather.

No accident, then—strange.

It was then he noticed her smile was tight and pinched at the corners.  This was neither her natural, relaxed, pleased smile, nor her quirked, teasing grin.  This smile was forced; Hawke was displeased and trying to extricate herself from whatever conversation she’d fallen into.

Unfortunately, Fenris hadn’t been paying the least bit of attention to whatever the merchant had been saying.  The spice merchant—an overpainted, over-perfumed woman with a tangle of blond curls spiraling down her shoulders—was casting a sly, knowing look Hawke’s way.

Hawke’s smile didn’t change.  It didn’t warm, and it didn’t soften.  “It was lovely seeing you again, Marlyne, really—”  But the lie was woven all throughout her words; for all her tone was convincing, it did not convince him.

The merchant turned to smile at him, but the smile did not rise to meet her slate-grey eyes.  Her features were narrow and vulpine, and her expression was openly speculative.  He’d seen such looks before on greedy, moneyed women looking to spend their coin at Minrathous’ slave market.  His hackles rose as he met her gaze with an impassive one of his own.

Fenris looked over to Hawke.  “We should move on,” he said brusquely.  To Fenris’ surprise, the taut corners of her forced smile relaxed even as her fingers gripped his arm more firmly.

“My friend is right, unfortunately.  Foolish me left home without a proper coat.  Can you imagine?”

“Evanne is around here somewhere,” the woman replied, flinging one hand dismissively.  “She’s brought some leather goods from Nevarra—you might find something there.”

“Thanks ever so,” Hawke replied, oozing false congeniality. “I’ll keep an eye out.”  As they walked away from the merchant, Hawke lowered her voice and tipped her head close to his.  “I didn’t think you were enjoying that.”

“What was the difficulty?”

She blinked once.  “You couldn’t tell?”

“I was not paying attention the the exchange. I only—”  Dare he admit to reading Hawke’s expression so carefully—even before he’d noticed the merchant?  “Your grip on my arm would not be ignored.”  Her hand remained, in fact, and Fenris shifted to take on some of Hawke’s weight as they walked.  “It was soon evident to me you had no desire to be mired down in unpleasant gossip.”

“And so I did not.”  She smiled, leaning subtly against his arm.  “Miss Marlyne is…” Hawke trailed off, looking thoughtful.  “She’s what I _pretend_ to be, I think.”  When Fenris didn’t comment, she went on, adding, “That _genuine_ Seheron spice blend she’s hawking?  She gets it in Denerim.  Where we are right now is probably as close as any of her wares have ever come to Seheron.”

“Whereas your potions?”

Her slim shoulders lifted in an easy, fluid shrug.  “If ever my potions or poultices don’t work, it’s because I’ve made them so they wouldn’t.”  Hawke’s dimple appeared.  “Drink too much of Empress Celine’s love potion and you’ll wake up with a nasty hangover, but not much of anything else.  Love’s not the sort of thing you can bottle, no matter who promises otherwise—oh, look,” she exclaimed, having spotted the leather merchant.  “There’s Evanne’s stall.”  She quickened her step before remembering with a muttered swear why she shouldn’t have. 

Fenris gripped Hawke’s elbow, steadying her.  “Dare we have a discussion about overtaxing oneself?”

Hawke snorted to hide her grimace.  “You’re just dying to do that, aren’t you?  What’s good for the goose is good for the gander?  No, thank you.  I promise, I’ll go slowly.  I just needed… a reminder.  A small one.” After a brief pause, she went on to say, “You know, back there with Marlyne—you’re not bad at reading signals.  I… don’t suppose you might… possibly consider hanging around even after this mess with Carver’s taken care of?”

Fenris blinked.  “Staying?”

As they reached the leather merchant’s cart, offering everything from woven bridles to stirrup leathers, greatcoats, and flared leather frock coats, Hawke seemed to realize all at once what she’d said, what she’d implied.  Her cheeks flushed pink.  “Ah.  Sorry.  That was presumptuous of me.  You have your own plans—”

Fenris shook his head.  “I do not see how I can… contribute to your…”

Amusement overshadowed discomfiture, Hawke’s mirth warming her eyes as she made a show of turning away from him to examine the merchant’s goods.  “Oh, I heard that pause.  You’re trying to find a delicate way to call it a sham.”

“I am not,” he replied with more heat than he’d meant to.  “I am only—“ 

But Fenris’ words died in his throat when he spied a splash of too-familiar colors passing along the furthest edge of the courtyard.  

Men and women bearing the crest of the Archon.  


	17. Chapter 17

Evanne, a sweet-faced surface dwarf with coal-dark hair just beginning to streak grey and startlingly bright blue eyes, did indeed have coats amongst her wares.  Fine ones made of leather Amelle would have seriously considered selling her soul for.

Unfortunately, not a damned one of them fit.

“I always say, that’s the trouble trying to find anything ready to wear,” Evanne muttered, pawing through a pile of sleeves and collars until she pulled free a bundle of leather the color of oxblood and shook it out, revealing a coat, cut and flared like a dandy’s frock-coat, though clearly more durable, with buttons dark as Orlesian chocolate.

“Can’t promise it won’t hang a little long on you, Mely, but not as long as the others do,” she said as Amelle pulled on the coat and buttoned it.  “You find yourself in Denerim or Amaranthine, you could find a decent glover to fix it up for you.  Right now, this is the best I’ve got.”

Amelle’s arms slid easily into the sleeves and she inhaled reflexively as the rich scent of beeswax and butter-soft leather wafted up around her.  True, the cuffs fell somewhat longer than they ought to have, and the length was, strictly speaking, an inch or two too long.  Still, it was a manageable sort of fit, unlike anything else she’d tried.  The color was also the sort of thing she might’ve considered killing a man for.

“You’ve put on everything else I’ve got,” Evanne said, scratching her chin thoughtfully.  “Mortin’s got a few things, but you can’t beat Nevarran stitching.”

Evanne was right; Mortin’s goods tended to be overpriced anyway.  And the coat was warm, which would made it even more attractive, given they’d be heading up into the mountains.

“What do you think, Fenris?” asked Amelle, turning and letting the coat flare out as she did.  Long sleeves or not, she quite liked the way it fit, and the _color—_

But Fenris wasn’t paying attention.  Indeed, whatever _had_ captured Fenris’ notice had done so completely enough that Amelle had a feeling she could have blown a bugle in his ear and it wouldn’t have made so much as a dent in his concentration.  

“Fenris?” she asked again, crouching down to pick up her bag and sling it over her head.

He jerked his attention back in time for Amelle to see whatever had caught his eye had also turned him pale;  his nostrils flared and a muscle jumped in his cheek as he clenched his jaw.

“What is it?” he asked, tersely.

“I think I should be asking you the same,” she replied, taking a step closer and lowering her voice.

“Agents of the Archon are here.”

Amelle blinked once. Twice.  “Do you think they’re here for you?”

“It is likely, is it not?”

“Not necessarily.”  At his skeptical glare, Amelle sighed.  “First, just because they’re in Ferelden doesn’t mean they know you’re _right here_ in West Hill. Could be they arrived in Highever or Amaranthine and—”

“Are only _searching_ for me,” he finished for her, dryly.

“They could just be couriers.  Or merchants,” she countered, keeping her voice down.

“That is hardly better, when you consider the Imperium’s preferred import.”

Amelle craned her neck to see just who Fenris was referring to; her ankle protested as she lifted up onto her tiptoes and she placed a hand on his shoulder to steady herself.  Then she saw them, three women and four men, far more richly attired than the hunters who’d ambushed Fenris to begin with.  Their leather was supple, their weapons gleaming and deadly, and they all wore the same dark, severe colors, with the same green crest upon their arms.

“How can you tell it’s—”

“They bear a jade green circle bisected by a dragon and serpent intertwined.”

Amelle hissed a soft swear.

“Problem, Mely?” Evanne asked.  “And is that coat a yay or a nay?”

“A yay, but I don’t believe I’m going to have time to haggle.”

Evanne huffed and had the nerve to look offended.  “Dwarves never—”

“Oh, pull the other one, would you?  What do you want for it?  Just don’t rob me too blind, I still need a decent hat.”

The look Fenris shot her was one of purest disbelief.  “A _hat?_ ”

“I still need a hat, Fenris.  More than that,” she added, lowering her voice, “I need five minutes to figure out how we’re getting out of here when the horses aren’t near to ready, and Isabela and Varric are Maker knows where doing Maker knows what, and it is only my dearest hope they’re not doing it _together._ ”

Evanne quoted Amelle a price that still made her balk, and while she didn’t haggle, she did send the dwarf a mighty glare as she passed over the coin.  “Right, then,” she murmured.  “Let’s see if we’re lucky enough that I’ll find what I need in the _opposite_ direction of where they seem to be headed.  Where _do_ they seem to be headed?”  She went on tiptoes again and watched them stride arrogantly in the direction of the kitchens.  “Good, good,” she said on an exhale that bore many qualities similar to a relieved sigh.

“Good?” Fenris echoed, dubious.

The heavy wooden door closed behind them.  “Good,” she said, firmly.  “They’ve gone into the kitchens.”  

Finding a hat was a damn sight easier than finding a coat—a damn sight less expensive, too—but after little more than five minutes of looking for Isabela and Varric to no avail Amelle cast a speculative eye around the fortress.  “What we need,” she murmured, “is to get up high so we can find Isabela and Varric without accidentally finding anyone we don’t particularly want to find.”

Fenris followed her gaze and gave an approving nod.  “You’re thinking of the turrets.”

“I am indeed thinking of the turrets.  Or the upper walkway.  But preferably the turrets.”

The _guarded_ turrets—soldiers stationed at the bottom of stone stairways likely for no reason but to keep harebrained traders from doing anything… well, harebrained.

Amelle chewed her bottom lip, thinking hard.  They didn’t have a great deal of time to waste—even if they had a chance of getting the horses out early, the animals surely wouldn’t thank them for it, and Maker only knew how that would come back to bite them later.  She looked again at the stone-bored soldiers—all they really needed to do was gain passage up the stairs.  The lookout towers themselves weren’t guarded.  

All they had to do was get past one of the guards.  Just one.

“Fenris?”  At his tense look, she swallowed hard and said, “I need you to trust me and follow my lead.”

His brows twitched together warily.  “Hawke?”

“And for the Maker’s sake, _don’t laugh._ ”

“I highly doubt I’m be capable of finding the humor in anything at the moment.”

“Good.  Hold on to that.  And just… follow my lead.  No matter what I do. No matter how crazy it seems.”

His silence was far more eloquent than any spoken answer could have been.  Until, at least, she slid her hand into his—Fenris’ initial reaction was to jerk away, until Amelle threaded her fingers through his and sent him a meaningful and exceptionally pointed look.

“Your hands are cold.”

“Yes.  Well.  That tends to happen right before I’m about to do something completely _mad._ What part of _follow my lead_ didn’t you understand?”

Surely there were other ways to charm them both past the sentries, but Amelle couldn’t think of a one, and there was no telling how long it would take the Archon’s men to eat a bowl of stew.  Not long if they liked it, and even less time if they didn’t.

As it turned out, the threat of eventual discovery was all the incentive she needed.  As they walked, she forced her gait to be leisurely, willed her shoulders and hips to loosen, and paid particular attention to the quality of smile she wore upon her lips.  She took regular, paced breaths, which went a fair distance towards keeping her mana under control and slowing her heart so it didn’t beat entirely out of her chest.  From the corner of her eye, she saw Fenris watching her warily and she silently pleaded, _play along play along play along._

The northernmost watchtower afforded the best view of the courtyard, the kitchens, and all available exits.  The guard stationed at the base of that stairwell was a tall, rangy fellow, with dark hair and darker eyes.  He also wore the glazed over look of one bored very nearly to tears with his station.  Boredom was good.  She could use boredom to her advantage.  

Giving Fenris’ hand a squeeze, she tugged him close as they approached the guard.  Now was not the time to think about the stench of river clinging to her skin—now was the time to focus on her best conspirator’s smile and dipping her head just shyly enough as to not oversell it.

They weren’t more than five feet from the bottommost stair before the guard snapped to attention.  “Civilians not admitted on the upper walkway, miss,” he told them, his tone crisp, but not rude.  Bored but friendly.  She could work with that, too.

Amelle threw Fenris a wide-eyed look of abject disappointment before turning her gaze back toward the guard.  “I don’t… I wouldn’t want to be a bother—I know this is your post, but…”  Another look at Fenris, who’d at least stopped looking at her as if she’d lost her only mind.  “We’d… really appreciate… just a few minutes.”  A pause.  “ _Alone_.”  She glanced up at the watchtower, then nodded.  “Up there.”

The guard blinked, then looked up at the turret as if he couldn’t quite understand her question.  “Wait.  You…  want—”

Amelle ducked her head, looking up at the guard from behind the fringe of her hair, lowering her voice.  It wasn’t quite sultry; she wasn’t sure she could _do_ sultry, but hopefully loaded with something like intent.  “You’ve got to understand how hard it is to find anywhere around here that’s… well.  _Private_.”  She blinked slowly, injecting just enough meaning into the word as she bit her bottom lip in a shy, just-coy-enough smile.

As the guard looked from Amelle to Fenris and back again, Amelle fought the urge to send a worried glance back at the kitchen door and focused instead on keeping her body pliant, turned slightly against Fenris.  

Pliant, at least, until Fenris’ arm snaked about her waist and pulled her back until she was flush against him, his hand splayed on her belly.  

With Amelle’s surprised gasp—no artifice there—every last coherent thought in her head fled.  Then Fenris looked over her shoulder at the guard, his mouth so, so very close to her ear; when he spoke, his breath was warm and his voice gravelly and low and positively thrumming with equal parts promise and, oh, _innuendo_ as he lingered over each word:

“It won’t take long.”

Amelle’s breath hitched and caught and his hand was still there, still on her, still _holding_ her—she wanted to do nothing so much as give in to the full-body shiver that felt as if it were poised, trembling, at the top of her spine.  Instead, she swallowed hard and tried to remember whether this was turning out to be a good idea dressed up like a bad one, or a bad idea dressed up like a good one.  It was hard to tell.

However, Fenris’ contribution turned out to be, as it happened, the precise _right_ thing to say.  The guard shook his head, exhaling a helpless laugh, then gestured with his rifle.  “Go on up.  Keep it quiet, though,” he added sternly.  “I’ll be on night watch for a month if it gets out I let this slide.”

Fenris’ arm remained around her waist, his hand resettling just above her hip as they climbed the stairs and the experience was such that Amelle could not help but curse wanting a chance to compare reality of his arms to the memory of them—this was nothing at all like the way Fenris had held onto her in the river. This was solid warmth without desperation or determination.  They were two lovers making their way to an assignation— _except_ for the part where they were sneaking up to gain a better vantage point that they’d stand a chance of spotting Isabela or Varric while hopefully avoiding the Archon’s men.

And that opened up a whole new line of questions Amelle was far from prepared to deal with just then—what if they were just couriers?  Just merchants? Were they here on some other business, or _were_ they looking for—

 Fenris’ fingers tightened on Amelle, that barest bit of pressure making it even more difficult to maintain her hold on that train of thought.  

But what if they were looking for him?  Was this chance, or had they been tracked here?  If it was the former, then she, Fenris, Varric and Isabela could very likely sneak out before the Tevinters were any the wiser.  If the Archon’s agents knew they were already here… well, that made things a fair bit more difficult.

After a climb that lasted no less than a decade, Fenris pulled open the heavy wooden door—it creaked abominably—and together they slipped into the tower’s dark interior.  Once inside, Amelle turned to Fenris in time to see his face, his expression thoroughly unreadable, barely a second before the heavy door slammed home, plunging them into darkness.  His hand had fallen from her waist, but they were still close enough she felt the heat coming off him.

The sound of the marketplace below had dulled to a hum and the only sounds in the turret tower were their combined breaths—Fenris’ were as unsteady as her own, warm puffs of air against her skin.  She tried to breathe, but her stomach flipped with every breath she took, fighting the urge to move even closer. The memory of his fingers burned at her hip.

A second ticked by.  Another.  Then another. 

In an aborted movement, Amelle lifted her hand, the backs of her fingers brushing against Fenris’ coat, the soft rasp as loud and as startling as any gunshot. They both pulled away suddenly, both of their own accord and both drawing in sharp breaths that bounced like a snake’s hiss off the stones. Never was Amelle more thankful for complete and utter pitch darkness.

Swallowing hard, she drew in a deep, shuddering breath and strove to keep her voice light, her tone steady.  “We did it.”

“We did.”

Another breath, and another.  All she had to do was keep breathing.  Simple, really.  “Well.  That worked even better than I’d hoped.”

There was a brief silence before Fenris replied.  “Indeed.”

“You were good—great down there.”  Maker, her mana was fairly bouncing in her veins.  “Very—very convincing.”  

 _Too convincing._  

Fenris’ only reply was a soft bark of laughter.  At least he could laugh.  Amelle was having difficulty catching her breath; beneath where his hand had been her skin still tingled, even under the leather coat and layers of clothing she wore.  Taking another, steadier breath and letting it out slowly, Amelle called a ball of blue flame to her palm, illuminating the bottom of the tower and taking the edge off her jittery mana.  A stone staircase spiraled upward where arrow slits let in shafts of light that didn’t reach them below.  A above a trapdoor led to, Amelle assumed, the parapets.

As they began their ascent, the bottles in her satchel clinked softly, their echo almost musical.  Far less musical was the way her ankle twinged with every step.  Gritting her teeth, Amelle took the steps slowly in the hope it might keep the discomfort to a level she could ignore. “Our options as I see them are either to wait here until the Archon’s men go on their way, or sneak out before they’re even aware of us.”

Fenris’ answering silence was a thoughtful one.

“I am going to assume,” Amelle went on, “you’d rather get the hell out of here at the earliest possible opportunity.”

“You are correct in that assumption.”

“Which means being either quick or sneaky—ideally I’d like to manage a combination of the two.”

His steps echoed in time with hers as they climbed.  “As would I.”

As they continued on up the dizzying stairway, daylight shone through the narrow slit openings, casting pale beams of sunlight, mottled with dust.  

“All right,” she said, dousing her flame once they’d finally reached the trapdoor.  “Let’s consider the worst of worst-case scenarios.”  She pushed against it with her shoulder, but it didn’t budge.  Cursing, she pushed again, harder, and the door gave way with a creak and a scream of hinges as sunlight poured down and a salt-ridden wind whipped above.  She pulled her hat off before the wind could do it for her and climbed up to the parapets.  

Fenris followed, pulling his own hat down more firmly on his head. “That Danarius has appealed to the Archon for his assistance and influence in having me returned, dead or alive,” he replied, raising his voice over the sharp wind. “And the Archon has sent his personal guard to collect me, and either they already know I am here, or our crossing paths with them is simply indicative of possibly the worst stroke of luck we’ve encountered to date?”

Amelle stared at him.  “Worst stroke of—Fenris, you do realize we very nearly _drowned_ yesterday.”

“No, we did not.”

“So you knew beyond a shadow of doubt we were both going to make it out of that river alive?  Have you got a gift of second sight you’re not telling me about?”

Fenris did not reply right away. Instead he turned, bracing his hands on the parapet’s stone ledge as he looked down to the people milling below.  

“I told you you would not drown, and so you did not.”

#

It was madness, pure and simple.

Representatives of the Archon were here—in Ferelden, in this very fortress.  How could Fenris possibly imagine they were here for any reason other than to collect him?  And yet, with such a threat so near to hand, Fenris had come dangerously close to throwing caution to the four winds.  Oh, Hawke’s ruse had been effective, and he himself had seen firsthand the ease with which she switched between masks—surely “playing along” wouldn’t have been such a difficult thing for him to manage.  Surely.

But while Hawke had been ducking her head and smiling shyly at the guard, a lightning-quick flash of envy had crossed his features too quickly for Hawke to notice.  But Fenris had.  His experience observing the Imperium’s privileged masses had taught him early that jealousy seldom bore fruit, but commonality often did _._   And so he’d wrapped a careless arm around Hawke, pulling her to him as one might a shiny, temporary possession and shot the guard a knowing look as if they two were in on a shared, private joke.

She had requested he play along, and their success hinged on convincing verisimilitude.

He’d expected his ruse to work, but what Fenris hadn’t expected was Hawke’s surprised gasp, or the softness of her body as she pressed against him.  For all her jesting about the stench of mud and slime, only the scent of leather had met his nose; her body had been warm beneath his hand, even through her coat.  He’d kept his arm around her as they ambled together up the stairway that he might… maintain appearances, but those few moments in the hushed darkness had nearly chased the rationalization from his mind.  There had been only the two of them in the dark, Fenris’ lyrium buzzing beneath his skin as he listened to Hawke’s quick breaths—there mere sound of her breathing had turned his own breaths labored.

Then the spell spun by adrenaline and temporary escape had broken.  He told himself he was thankful.  Now the chill sea air blew hard against his face, cut through his duster and sliced through to his bones. He was far more thankful for _that._

Hawke stood beside him, peering down to the market below.   Her hair blew about her head, short strands tossed haphazardly by the salty wind.  She raked her fingers through it, pushing it back with a grimace.  “Once we spot Isabela and Varric, let me go down and fetch them while you go to the stables and have the grooms pull the horses.”  She ground her teeth a moment, adding, “I don’t like the idea of splitting up, but it’s not likely the Archon’s men will be heading back to the stables anytime soon if they’ve only just arrived. More likely they’ll hit the barracks next.”

“You’re so sure?”

She scowled.  “ _Sure_ isn’t the word I’d use.  I know what most people do when they come here—provided we assume for the moment they’re not here because they know you are too, they’ll likely eat something and go to catch some sleep.  Even if they browse the stalls, they’ve still got to rest their animals.”

“As we had planned to do,” he reminded her pointedly.

Exhaling hard through her nose, Hawke gripped her satchel strap, twisting the leather around her fingers.  “I know.”

“And if they catch up with us in the meantime?”

She sent him a sidelong glance, arching a brow.  “While we’re trying to make our great getaway, you mean?”

“I do.”

Turning to face him fully, Hawke lifted her chin and met his eyes with calm defiance.  “Then we fight.  I put too much healing into you to let anyone undo my hard work, Fenris.  Not Danarius, not the Archon, not even one of the Old Gods, should one of them see fit to turn up.  Are you spotting a trend?”

“You are stubborn.”

Her grin was sudden as she tossed him a wink.  “You knew that already.”

That, at least, was true enough.  Shaking his head, Fenris exhaled a not-quite laugh as he looked over the parapets, eyes scanning the crowd for their companions.  They stood there in silence as merchants  bought, sold, and traded with each other, until Fenris caught sight of a flash of familiar blue.

“There,” he said, pointing.

“Aha. Yep,”  Hawke said, leaning further over the ledge, looking down.  “There she is.  And there’s Varric.  It’s a rare thing to find one of them without the other.”  She watched them a few seconds longer.  “Didn’t start out that way, but…”

He pulled back from the edge and glanced at her, asking, “Are they…?”

“Involved?” Hawke laughed, shaking her head.  “No.  Certainly not.”  Then she paused, giving the subject perhaps more thought than she had been inclined before.  Uncertainty etched across her features before she shook her head again.  “At least, I… don’t think they are.”  She looked down at the pair again and pursed her lips, turning and starting back toward the trapdoor.  “You know, better not to think to hard on that.  At all.”  

The trapdoor was even more difficult to open from the outside, and it took the two of them to open it with a shriek of hinges that rivaled the cry of a banshee.

“Right, then,” Hawke said as they lowered themselves down onto the staircase spiraling downward; they were out of the wind as well, and her voice sounded louder in the silence.  “Your, ah, _friends_ should still be in the kitchens—if you stick to the opposite wall, it’s unlikely they’ll see you across the courtyard, even if they were to come out unexpectedly.”  In the muted darkness, alleviated only by shafts of sunlight streaming through narrow openings, Hawke pressed one hand against the wall as she descended the stairs.  The tilt of her shoulders and the hitch in her breath were more than enough to indicate the state of her ankle.  He bit back his concern—she would not thank him for it, not now, when they were trying to leave West Hill both speedily and surreptitiously, qualities Fenris knew were imperative to any successful escape.

Even so, he could not quell instinct long-ingrained.  For all Hawke had given him reason after reason to trust her, he could not quite ignore the whispers that slithered up from the depths of him pointing out how splitting up provided Hawke ample opportunity to seek out the Archon’s men without him being the wiser.  The possibility made his gut twist and lurch with dread, despite how often and how forcefully he reminded himself Hawke had dealt with him in good faith from the start.

_Is she truly interested in an expedient departure, or is she more interested in the benefits of turning over a runaway slave?_

His hands curled into fists as he pushed back against the invasive, traitorous thought.  Hawke had earned his trust, something neither freely given nor easily acquired.  He could not withdraw that trust now.  He would not.

“And if it’s not too much trouble,” she went on, step after careful step, heedless of the silent war Fenris’ waged with himself, “my staff’s wrapped up and tied down.  With this little wrinkle, I wouldn’t mind having it in easy reach until we’re clear of West Hill.”

“What do you anticipate?” he asked, his tone terse.

“These people already ambushed you once,” she replied. “I try not to make a habit of overestimating my own cleverness.”

For years now, Fenris’ continued existence had hinged on depending solely on himself; it was simpler and safer that way, to believe enemies lurked around every corner, every friendly smile hid a dagger in the dark.  But he trusted Hawke; he trusted her more than he’d trusted anyone in recent memory.  

“Very well,” he replied after a too-long silence.  Light winked into existence in Hawke’s palm as they descended the tower, moving further from the narrow beams of light cutting through the darkness above.  He would fetch the horses.  And he would ready Hawke’s staff, if it would allow them to leave this place more readily.

And if that betrayal came… if it came, it would sting, but he would face it.

At the bottom of the turret, Hawke held her globe of flame aloft with one hand and returned her hat to her head with the other.  The blue light danced across her features, flickered in her eyes.  “Ready?”

“I am.”  _One way or the other._

“Good.”  The dimple appeared again at Hawke’s cheek and she winked.  “Let’s go be clever.”


	18. Chapter 18

It wasn’t such a vast undertaking, Amelle decided.  When all was said and done, the only thing they had to do was get out of West Hill without attracting attention to themselves.  People did that every day.  Besides that, they knew about the Archon’s men, but the Archon’s men didn’t know about _them._   It was a significant advantage, and one Amelle planned to take full advantage of.  They had the upper hand here—they just had to keep it that way.   

The globe of blue flame glowed steadily in Amelle’s palm as she continued grinning up at Fenris. “All we have to do,” she said, “is sneak downstairs like we got away with something naughty—which, all right, fair point; I suppose we did, in a way—then you get the horses while I collect Varric and Isabela and we’ll be out of West Hill before you can spit.”  

The longer she looked at him, though, the more she noticed how Fenris’ clothes, though worn, were meticulously cared-for; she’d yet to see him, their first meeting notwithstanding, looking anything but perfectly tidy.  Even despite yesterday’s watery interlude, his shirt was clean and tucked in and his plain, dark waistcoat had nary a wrinkle anywhere.  He wore no collar, no cravat, but even the top button of his shirt, left unbuttoned, did nothing to detract from how very _neat_ he looked.  She looked up at him a long while, smile fading into thoughtfulness.

It would never do.  If she’d been up here with him in _that_ capacity, she’d— 

No.  It would never do.

“What?” Fenris asked, suddenly wary.  

Without a word, Amelle pushed his hat back off his head, the windstring catching at his neck, and ran her fingers through his hair, mussing it.  With reflexes quick enough they made Isabela look slow, Fenris grabbed her wrist and ducked away.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, tone sharp as he scowled down at her in the blue light.

“Think about what we told the guard we’d be doing up here,” Amelle reminded him. “I don’t know how _you_ do things, but when I—“

“You make a habit of sneaking into off limits areas for secret assignations?”

“Well, no,” she admitted, darting closer and, letting her flame transfer to the hand he held, Amelle reached up and tousled his hair with her free hand.  “But I’m not going to stand here and pretend I’ve never even kissed a man before.”

“And how do you think I should look?” he asked, skepticism running thick through his words.

“Definitely less annoyed,” Amelle returned pertly, her fingers still carding through his hair.  It was softer than it looked.  “Maybe a little flushed,” she added, trying not to imagine that and failing.  When, exactly, had this seemed like a good idea?  “…Satisfied.”

A beat of silence followed, Fenris’ expression inscrutable as he watched her.  Then, he arched an eyebrow.  “You think highly of yourself.”

“You’d rather pretend to be two people who went into the tower and _didn’t_ enjoy themselves?” she reasoned.  Pulling her hand from his hair—reluctantly—Amelle brought her fingers to the topmost button on his shirt.  This time Fenris grabbed that hand, stilling it.  

“Hawke—”

Amelle sighed. “Really, Fenris, we don’t have _time_ —”

Then he kissed her.  Hard.  

The light in her hand guttered out.

It took a moment for Amelle’s brain to catch up with what the rest of her was doing; Fenris hands were still closed around her wrists, and his lips pressed firmly against hers.  Tugging her hands free, Amelle twisted closer, then grabbed his coat and held on for dear life because, Maker’s breath, his mouth was hot and insistent as his fingers wound into her hair, tugging on the strands, tilting her head back as he opened his mouth to hers.  

Verisimilitude, indeed.

Amelle responded in kind, trying to meet his intensity with her own, darting her tongue out to taste him, and with that contact something primal sparked deep in her brain.  She slid her hands into Fenris’ coat, up his chest to grip his shoulders, fingers clutching at his shirt, digging into his flesh; he felt so good, so solid, it would have been so easy to forget—

All an act, that’s all it was.  Or meant to make their act more convincing.  Something.  Coherent thought had become gradually more difficult to maintain.

One hand slid from Amelle’s hair, trailing down her neck and onward down her body, coming to pause at the curve of her waist—exactly where Fenris’ hand had rested before, when they’d fooled the guard so successfully.  The memory of that touch, of the way he’d pulled her close, the sound of his voice, the warmth of his breath so close to her ear, surged in Amelle’s mind and she groaned into the kiss, hooking an arm around his neck.  

Then Fenris’ thigh moved between her legs and either Fenris remembered himself or Amelle did, because with that contact they parted on a gasp in the dark, both of them panting.  Every inch of her skin tingled as she pressed her fingertips to her lips and attempted to catch her breath—easier said than done.

“There,” Fenris managed, sounding nearly as out of sorts as Amelle felt, and that was a comfort.  “Do you… feel that will render us convincing enough?”

 _Maker save me from my own bright ideas,_ she thought, swallowing hard.  What she said, however—and by the Void, her voice sounded breathy and foreign to her ears—was, “That… should work, yes.”  She tamped down on the urge to straighten her clothes, pressing a hand to her belly instead.  It was flipping like a traveling Antivan acrobatics troupe, and all the deep breathing in the world wasn’t going to calm it.

“I… apologize,” Fenris said into the darkness.

“For what?” replied Amelle, forcing her tone so it sounded airy and carefree instead of lust-strangled.  “Anything to make the act more believable, right?” Looking the part was the most important thing, right?  

Right.  

A pause came and went.  “Yes.  Precisely.”

She curled her hands into fists so they’d stop shaking—hopefully—and leaned her shoulder against the tower door.  “Shall we?”

“Lead on.”

They descended the stairs together, and after such a… thorough discussion on the merits of convincing appearances, the only thing Amelle was absolutely certain of was that her pulse was still doing the Remigold in her veins and her cheeks were so very warm it was a wonder she hadn’t burst into actual flame. Amelle had no idea how she _looked,_ only that every inch of skin, every nerve ending felt alive and when she pressed the back of her hand to her flushed cheek, it would not cool.  With no small amount of luck, the guard that had granted them passage wouldn’t question them now in the least.

And he didn’t.

Amelle and Fenris walked by the guard—and at the sound of their footsteps, he moved nonchalantly out of the way.  They walked past, close enough to each other that the tops of their hands brushed, and though Amelle was certain she was giving off actual sparks with the contact, they behaved with nothing near the implied intimacy they’d displayed on the way up the stairs.  Two people trying not to flaunt their illicit interlude—an assumption confirmed when the guard sent them both a nod coupled with a conspirator’s smirk.  Amelle’s face went even hotter.

She really, really couldn’t wait to leave West Hill.

“All right,” she said, once they’d reached the bottom of the stairs, just on the cusp of a line of traders’ stalls that ran the width of the courtyard.  “Stables are that way,” she told him with a nod in that direction, shifting her weight onto her left foot and slowly rotating her right.  It did little to alleviate the ache still radiating up from her ankle and, exhaling hard, she set her foot down.

“Are you well?”

Amelle made a face.  “I’ll be better tonight.”  She wasn’t quite ready to look him in the eye yet, not after—not after any of that, and not here in full sunlight where her flushed cheeks and rumpled shirt were on full display.  With a grimace, she tugged her coat closed and began buttoning it.  “Anyway, _be careful._   I’ll find Isabela and Varric and we’ll come to you quick as we can.  Then we can leave and hope to the Void the Maker doesn’t send us anything else to make this trip more interesting.”

Then, still careful to keep her eyes from his, Amelle turned and began walking in the direction they’d seen Varric and Isabela head—though that had been… some time ago, before they’d… well.  Some time ago, anyway.

Amelle walked faster.  Or she’d started to, until Fenris called her name.  She stopped and turned to find him sending her a quizzical look, as if she were a riddle he couldn’t quite figure out.

“Yes?”  She looked into his face this time, met his eyes, and was more than a little gratified to discover he looked similarly discomforted and flushed beneath his tan.

He hesitated a moment, shifting his weight briefly before jerking his chin in the direction she’d been headed.  “Hawke. Be careful.”

She smiled and shrugged.  “Always am.”

They parted ways and Amelle hurried along, eyes peeled for Isabela or Varric—they’d been just around here not that long ago; they couldn’t have gone that far.  Amelle gritted her teeth and ignored the ache pulsing up from her foot.  Tonight—tonight, wherever they stopped, she would rest it properly. Directing mana to an injury was a process that took time and concentration, neither of which she had in great supply at that moment. 

Finally, not far from a weapons vendor specializing in long, curved daggers, Amelle caught a flash of Isabela’s blue headscarf and quickened her steps, hissing a curse as pain throbbed up her leg.

Whether it was the sound of her steps against stone or some other tell Amelle was unaware of, Isabela turned, the expression on her face one of wary concern.

 _“There_ you are,” she said sharply, though Amelle did not miss the flicker of confusion, followed by speculation.  Whatever her thoughts, though, Isabela pushed them aside for more pressing matters.  “We’ve got trouble, Hawke.  Seven—”

“Tevinters,” Amelle supplied.  “We saw them already; Fenris is getting the horses. I saw them go into the kitchens a while ago. Should be—“

“Two of them are out already—guess mutton stew was too lowbrow for them,” said Varric.  “Rivaini and I—“

“We’ve been watching them. Nothing too terribly interesting.  Just a lot of browsing and insulting the traders—always smart.”

“Any idea what they’re here for?” asked Amelle as she turned, the three of them making their way through the courtyard toward the gate.

“No,” answered Isabela, annoyed.  “If they’ve said anything about themselves to anyone, it’s been rooted in their own self-importance.  A lot of posturing going on.”

“Fenris says they’re agents of the Archon.”

“And what’s that? Their governor?” Isabela asked with a snort.  “Sounds a bit of a puffed up title, you ask me.”

“I don’t think they’re hunters,” Varric said, rubbing his chin. “Hunters don’t tend to advertise.”

“They weren’t dressed for it, either,” added Isabela.  At Amelle’s curious look, she shrugged.  “For one thing, they had too many valuables on them: rings and timepieces—things too easily lost or damaged most men or women don’t wear on a hunt.  For another, their leather was too supple and their velvet too clean.  I don’t doubt they’re worthy of avoiding, but I’d bet my favorite deck of cards that group’s not here to hunt broody elves.”

Amelle snorted.  “I’d take that bet and be happy to part with the coin if it means you’re right.”

“You’re on.”

“Do we want to know what they _are_ here for?” Amelle asked, glancing back at Isabela as they crossed through the gates.

“I’d bet Rivaini’s favorite deck they’re not here for anything _good._ ”

“Sucker’s bet,” Amelle replied.  

“And all the more reason for us to get as far from West Hill as we can,” chimed in Isabela as they rounded the corner to the stables.

Fenris had wasted no time getting the horses readied—he was already astride Agrippa, eyes set watchfully in their direction.  The horses looked as if they’d been groomed, at least, and the tack had been cleaned.  They’d had no more than an hour’s rest, which wasn’t nearly enough, but it would have to suffice, at least until they knew they were a safe distance from West Hill and its not-entirely-welcome visitors.

As Amelle circled around Falcon and gripped the saddle horn, preparatory to pulling herself up.

“Do you require assistance?” Fenris asked, but Amelle shook her head.  Truthfully, perhaps she ought to have taken him up on his offer of help, but aside from not being entirely ready to be so close to him again, she also didn’t want to waste the time.  Amelle heaved herself into the saddle with minimal discomfort and smiled to discover Fenris had indeed unwrapped her staff—most of it, anyway; he’d kept the blade wrapped in oilcloth, as it rested against Falcon’s body—and fastened it along Falcon’s side, beneath the saddle flap; its subtle presence pressing against the inside of her leg wasn’t… comfortable, exactly, but it was reassuring.

“Farewell again, West Hill,” Varric said mournfully as they nudged the horses down the hill onto the path cutting through the woods.  “I will miss you, but not your mutton stew.”

The paths through the Coastlands were well-traveled, if nothing else, lined by dense pine trees on either side, their branches canopying overhead.  Earthy pine mingled with the salt air coming in off the water—close enough to smell, not to hear.  Birds called overhead and branches sent needles drifting downward as squirrels raced from limb to limb. For twenty minutes they maintained a good pace in peace—it took at least that long for Amelle to stop glancing worriedly over her shoulder.  

Then the birds went quiet.  Small animals stopped scurrying along twisted, stretching boughs. Agrippa snorted suddenly and pranced, pawing at the ground; when Amelle looked at Fenris, she saw his jaw set like stone, his grip on his reins turning his knuckles white.

A low rumble rose from behind them.  Amelle’s breath caught; it sounded too like the river moments before it had swept her from the bridge.  But the skies were clear.  No, the rumble was hoofbeats.  And they were drawing nearer.

In that moment it didn’t matter who was behind them on the path— _someone_ was, and that was enough.  An apostate’s life was a curious blend of risk and caution, and by this stage in her life, Amelle felt herself… more or less qualified to navigate the line between the two.  Running like hell was in this case the cautious thing to do—sometimes it didn’t matter who was behind you, only that somebody _was_.  

 _“Go!”_ Amelle shouted, kicking Falcon’s sides hard, pushing him forward.  

But Falcon’s strides had only started to lengthen when a sick thrum pulsed through the air, shivering unpleasantly up Amelle’s spine.  Her stomach churned to nausea as a cold sweat and gooseflesh crawled across her skin.  Blood magic.

She dug her heels into Falcon’s sides again, but her horse had already begun slowing.  She pressed harder into his sides, snapped his reins against his neck, but her horse continued to slow down, his head drooping as if he hadn’t the strength to hold it upright any longer _._   Fenris cursed off to her right, and when Amelle looked, she saw his stately mare stumbling to a stop.  Falcon’s legs trembled and he dropped to one knee, his breaths coming fast and hard.  She slid from his back and ran her hands along his body, a healing spell lighting her hands, the magic made too rough and imprecise by her wild stab of fear.

What the hell had been done to her horse?  And who in all the Void _did_ it?

Cedric let out a dismayed neigh, and Varric only just barely dismounted before the animal collapsed.  Unaffected by her own spell, Falcon tumbled over to his side.  A glance showed her Tango was likewise incapacitated.

Magic seared the air again.  Falcon’s eyes rolled and closed, and for a too-long heartbeat of time Amelle’s heart turned to ice in her chest.

But no, his sides still rose and fell.  A sleep spell, then.  But one far thicker and more insidious than she’d ever attempted.

Nothing more than pure luck had prevented Falcon from falling onto her staff.  Amelle looked around them—the horses had fallen in the middle of the path.  There was nowhere, no _way_ to shelter them; a fight was coming—that much she was sure of, and it was coming fast.  The only option remaining to them was to move that fight away from the animals.  With a flick of her fingers, Amelle singed the rope holding her staff in place and pulled it free.  The oilcloth loosened, slowly spiraling off the staff’s bladed end as the hoofbeats grew louder.  Closer.  

She looked over her shoulder—dark shapes with riders cloaked in green rushed along the path.  The glow of magic rippled the air and she saw at least one rider held a staff aloft.   If at any point Amelle wondered how they had caught up with them, her questions were answered when she counted eight riders astride gleaming horses, animals clearly bred for speed, whose muscles flexed and rippled between clean, gleaming coats.

Wait.  Amelle blinked.  Eight?

“We missed one,” she breathed.  There was one rider they hadn’t accounted for—all the while they were trying to be _so careful_ and stay out of sight, when he hadn’t mattered one damned bit.  “Shit.  _Shit._ We _missed_ one.”  Quickly, she glanced to either side of the narrow road.  The trees were dense, but were they dense enough to force the riders off their mounts?  She dearly hoped so. Beside her, Isabela stood with daggers in hand.  Varric stood by Cedric’s still form, Bianca ready and waiting in his arms.  Fenris rested one hand on the butt of his gun, the other on the hilt of the templar sword.  

“We need to get off the road,” she said urgently, striding off into the pine-dotted brush.  The pine needles cushioning the forest floor were slippery, making the steep incline difficult to navigate.  “Keep them away from our horses and force them off theirs.”

“Hoping it’s too thick for them to follow on horseback?” asked Isabela, nodding her approval as she followed.  Varric and Fenris were close behind.  “I like it.  And not only because it’s the only plan we’ve got.”

“With luck,” Amelle said, digging the bladed end of her staff into the ground to keep her steps steady, “they’re expecting us to be unarmed.”

“If we had luck,” Fenris drawled darkly, lengthening his strides so he walked alongside Amelle. “We would not be in such a position to begin with.”

“That’s still luck, Broody,” quipped Varric.  “Just bad luck.”

Amelle’s grip tightened around her staff as she pulled herself up the incline.  “We’ll need to stay as close together as we can.”

“Pick them off, see if we can whittle their numbers down?” asked Varric.

“My thoughts exactly,” she replied, swearing under her breath as she nearly lost her footing on a patch of pine needles. “Don’t let them separate us—Maker knows they’ll try.”

As far as plans went, it was lacking.  But there was no time to plan, only run.

The pines were thick.  Needles covered every inch of the forest floor in a thick blanket that offered no traction.  Even using her staff for balance, Amelle slipped as she ran and stumbled over tree roots, newly healed bones and ligaments sending warning bolts of pain up her leg.

She reminded herself it would hurt worse if she were caught, and so she kept running.

###

Any thoughts Fenris may have entertained on whether or not Hawke was capable of betraying him, of arranging their discovery and pursuit, perished the moment he saw the look on her face.  For as easily as Hawke wore masks to suit her needs, he had no doubt her surprise at being followed, turning then to unvarnished dread and then pale fear as her horse staggered beneath her, were all genuine.  As genuine as the hardened determination she wore now.

His satisfaction at his well-placed faith, however, would have to wait. Many things would have to wait, in fact.

Beside him, Hawke drove the bladed end of her staff into the ground in time to catch herself from losing her footing on the carpet of pine needles.  She looked over her shoulder at their pursuers, then gnawed hard on her bottom lip.

“I suppose here’s as good a place as any to make a stand.  Varric?”

“Higher ground’s always good,” the dwarf replied.  “And what they’ve got in numbers, we can probably make up for in dirty tricks.”

Below them, two of the riders were either brave, arrogant, or foolish enough to try navigating their mounts through the dense trees.  It wasn’t impossible to do, but it was impossible to do _quickly._   While the riders struggled, the remaining six learned from their brethren and dismounted, some pulling swords and daggers free, while others unholstered pistols or rifles.  There was only a single mage; a woman with shining hair the color of coal swinging around her chalk-pale face.

The lead rider, a tall woman with pale blonde hair pulled back into a twist, strode forward, a rifle in her arms and a pair of daggers nestled in leather sheaths upon either thigh.  Her stance was wide, her eyes watchful, though they narrowed above a thin smile when her gaze settled on him.

“We have no quarrel with you,” she said.  “Give us the slave and we’ll be on our way.”

Hawke’s snort told Fenris she thought that was as likely as he did.  “I’m afraid you must be lost,” she called back.  “You’re in Ferelden.  We have only free men here.  Fenris,” she said, tilting her head his way, “is one such free man.”

Of all the words he’d expected Hawke to say, those had not entered into his mind.  His breath caught as he shot her a sidelong look, but her chin was lifted stubbornly, her mouth showing now sign of mirth, her eyes hard.  This was no silly ruse; Hawke was in earnest.  

“He’s been bought and paid for,” the blonde woman said.  “No magister wants to see such an investment slip through his fingers.”

Hawke and Isabela exchanged a quick look; Isabela’s brows lifted pointedly.  But before Fenris could do any more than wonder, Hawke hefted her staff and gave it a twirl as she sauntered forward—Fenris wondered if the Archon’s men saw how heavily she’d been leaning on it; he hoped not—and stabbed the bladed end into the ground, planting her other hand on her hip.  “And I suppose you’ve been sent directly by the magister in question?”

The lead rider snorted.  “We do the _Archon’s_ bidding, dog-lover.”

Hawke swung her head around to look at the rest of them, genuine puzzlement on her face. “I’ve never understood why that’s meant to be any sort of an insult. What’s wrong with dogs?” she asked in an undertone before facing the riders again.  “So it’s the _Archon_ looking for Fenris,” she drawled.  “My, he must be quite the celebrity where you’re from.”  Despite her words, she didn’t sound impressed.  

“Our business is none of your concern,” the woman tossed back, haughtily.  “Now will you hand over the slave, or are we to—”

Hawke interrupted, taking a step forward.  Her jaw tightened as she landed on her injured ankle, but what Fenris recognized as pain also looked akin to annoyance or anger.  “So the Archon’s errand you’ve been sent on _isn’t_ to return Fenris to the Imperium,” she said, narrowing her eyes and tilting her head as if trying to comprehend something beyond the words the woman spoke.

The leader blinked, nostrils flaring as she answered.  “I told you the Archon’s plans are none of your business.”

“But you also want to take my friend somewhere against his will—isn’t going to happen, by the way—and I was just wondering if that was your primary objective, or if this little meet-up is a coincidental one.”  She shifted her weight off the injured foot.  “Then again, you’ve all but told us collecting him isn’t your primary errand—which, as you’ve said at length, isn’t any of my business.”  Then Hawke twisted around again, digging in her pocket before flipping a coin Isabela’s way.  Upon catching sight of Fenris’ surprise, she shrugged one shoulder.  “What?  She bet me they weren’t actually here looking for you.”

Fenris stared, first at her, then at Isabela, who had already—smugly—made the coin disappear.  “And you took the bet?”

Hawke arched an eyebrow at him.  “It’s not like that.  I took it hoping she was right.”

This did nothing whatsoever to alleviate his stare.  “You took a bet you… wished to lose.”

A sheepish flush colored her cheeks, but she tilted her chin.  “No, I—did you have to put it _that_ way?”

Fenris arched an eyebrow at her.  “Hawke, I think you need to revisit the concept of _gambling_.”

“Shhh,” Isabela hissed.  “Don’t tell her _that._ ”

“I hate to interrupt,” the Imperium rider said, her patient, mocking tone running thin and peevish.  “But if you will not give us the slave, we will have no choice but to take him by force.”

Hawke turned back to them, her smile full of steel as she lifted one hand, mana dancing around her fingertips.  “Well,” she said, the stone at the end of her staff taking on a deep red glow, “you’re certainly welcome to _try._ ”

Hawke’s invitation was all the riders had been waiting for.  

The incident in Kinloch Hold notwithstanding, Fenris had very little experience fighting as a part of a _group._   He preferred to move in close and fast, dealing with whatever opponent had made the mistake of getting in his way.  It was, in part, why the hunters had managed to ambush him outside Ostagar—they’d taken him by surprise from a distance and made it difficult for him to get in close.  He was an excellent shot, but a ranged altercation failed to make use of his true talents, so to speak.  

It felt… strange to have someone at his back like this.

The air shimmered into a shield around Fenris, his ears popping with the change in air pressure as he charged forward, templar blade in one hand while the other blazed alight with lyrium.  The Archon’s agents scattered, some rushing for the considerable cover the trees provided, others standing their ground as they drew swords and daggers, metal glinting dangerously in the dappled light.  Gunfire tore the air and Fenris ducked reflexively as bullets ricocheted off Hawke’s protective shield; when he looked up again, his eyes settled on the man who’d fired on him—he’d looked pleased with himself at first, but that smile vanished into alarm as Fenris sprinted forward with a surge of lyrium.  Before the would-be assailant could pull the hammer back and squeeze off another shot, Fenris had already thrust his blade into the man’s belly as he shoved one glowing hand into his chest.  The pounding heart burst in his grip like rotten fruit. 

All around Fenris, Hawke’s magic pulsed and hummed through the air as protective glyphs shimmered into place and well-aimed fireballs caught the underbrush aflame, forcing archers and riflemen out from the safety of cover and into his and Isabela’s paths as crossbow bolts rained down. Isabela moved faster than he’d thought possible, dancing on the edge of his peripheral vision, daggers flashing and slicing through the air and into flesh as she lunged and spun, finding her targets with deadly accuracy.  She moved behind trees and around adversaries with skill and speed that looked akin to magic, as if she could disappear into nothing more than shadow, only to reappear again at will.  She appeared behind an archer aiming at Hawke and slit her throat before darting off to yet another target; Isabela’s victim was left with blood coursing down the front of her, darkening supple leather and fine velvet as she fell to the forest floor.

The group’s leader, the sneering blond, gripped two daggers in fisted hands as she made a beeline for Isabela, but all her grace and speed only brought a sharp, toothy smile from Isabela.  The blond feinted, fooling Isabela not at all as her dagger raised to block the blond’s strike before it could begin.  Fenris drew his revolver, but in the time it took him to lift the gun and pull back the hammer, Isabela had dropped down and swept out her leg, knocking the other woman to the ground, before rearing back and plunging her other dagger into the leader’s chest.

Then a wave of magic thrummed through the air anew, but this was not Hawke’s magic, full of lightning and fire and protective spells.  The lyrium in his skin prickled unpleasantly and he turned in time to spy the  mage, blood dripping from her hand as she thrust her arm forward—the blood exploded into a red mist and unholy light with a force that sent Hawke sprawling backwards, engulfing her as she landed hard upon the carpet of pine needles.  Before he could even _wonder_ at the nature of the spell, Hawke let out a long, hoarse scream, nothing like Fenris had ever heard in his life or ever wished to hear again.  She writhed in helpless agony on the ground, screams turning ragged as she clutched protectively at herself, mana flaring in useless light from her fingers as she fought to push past the spell.

_No._

Fenris spun on his heel, pulling at the lyrium in his markings until it flowed forward, bright and hot beneath his skin; the noise around him dulled as the fight dimmed to a grey-green blur around him as broke into a run, propelling himself toward the blood mage.  The mage’s smile, cold and cruel, vanished into shock and then—yes— _fear_ as Fenris closed the distance between them and drove the templar-forged sword deep into the mage’s gut.  She sneered at him and lifted her hand to her wound, but he’d already seen her fear, and it lingered like sour sweat.  Before she could call on the blood streaming so freely from the body and twist it into final a spell against him, Fenris thrust one glowing hand into her chest and squeezed her heart until it burst.

“Broody, duck!”

Letting the mage’s body crumple to the ground, Fenris did as Varric yelled, turning in time to see an archer’s chest, riddled with three rapidly-fired crossbow bolts; as the archer’s fingers went slack and he fell, the arrow shot wide, landing solidly into a tree trunk, the note upon which the altercation ended.

The forest was preternaturally quiet, save for the dismayed sounds of the Tevinters’ horses as they snorted and stomped at the ground.  Varric was by Hawke’s side, helping her up; her face had gone grey, and she leaned heavily on the dwarf, placing no weight at all upon her hurt ankle.  Fenris wondered again about the spell that had affected her so, but despite her pallor, Hawke’s expression evinced nothing but grim satisfaction.

“You all right, Hawke?” Varric asked, helping her to a fallen log, where she sat with a grimace.

She sent Varric a tight smile nodded, but Fenris found himself unconvinced.  Perhaps it was the quality of that smile—too forced, too white-lipped—or perhaps it was the way she held her staff, both hands curled into fists around the length of it.

“Mages,” she gritted out, “always know how to best hurt their own kind.”

“You are not her kind,” he said, loosing the words before he’d even realized he’d thought them.  Hawke lifted her head and looked at him, surprise pushing through the lingering discomfort.  Her smile grew less tight around the edges, easing into something genuine.

“Thanks,” was all she said.  Then she looked around at the carnage surrounding them.  “Well.  That went… better than expected. I think it’s safe to—Isabela, _what_ are you doing?”

Isabela was crouched over the fallen leader’s body, nimble hands rifling through pockets and leather pouches.  “What?” she said.  “These are top of the line blades,” she said, indicating the daggers she’d pulled from the woman’s slack hands. “And it’s not like she’s going to be needing them.  Besides—ooh, what have we _here_?” she murmured, pulling a sheaf of papers free from the dead leader’s satchel.

“I’m almost certain I’m not inclined to give a damn.”

But Isabela ignored her, frowning as she flipped through the documents she held.  “Hawke, I think you might want to see this.”

Something in Isabela’s tone caught Hawke’s ear; her brows furrowed together and she stretched out one hand, taking the sheaf of papers without a word.  Likewise, she read them without a word.

“Is that,” Isabela asked, arching an eyebrow and folding her arms, “or is that not a deed?”

“It is,” Hawke murmured.  She squinted at the type.  “For a lyrium mine—correction, _several_ lyrium mines.”

“What’s the Archon of the Tevinter Imperium doing trying to buy a lyrium mine in Ferelden?” asked Varric.  “Mages can’t hold property.”

“Known mages can’t,” Hawke corrected him in a murmur, rifling through the pages.  

“The Archon _is_ a known mage,” Fenris pointed out.  

“And yet I’m holding paperwork for the pending sale of five lyrium mines all over Ferelden.”  She looked up at Isabela.  “Check the rest of the bodies, grab anything that looks official.”  She pushed herself to her feet, and Fenris didn’t miss how badly her legs shook.  She leaned on her staff and glanced down the hill.  “Varric and I will go see about rousing the horses.”

With a brisk nod, Isabela turned and headed back towards the brush where the bodies still lay.  “Come on, Broody,” she called over her shoulder.  “We’ve got some bodies to loot.”  

Fenris glanced once over his shoulder as Varric helped Hawke ease her way down the hill and back to the horses, then looked down at his white-lined, blood-spattered hands, flexing them uneasily. 

Imperium-controlled lyrium mines.  He sincerely hoped _not._


	19. Chapter 19

Amelle swore.  Viciously.  _Profusely._

The horses weren’t rousing.  Or they weren’t rousing _properly,_ which was more the problem.  All four were sprawled on their sides; Falcon was snoring, his lips trembling with every exhale, and as they approached, Cedric let out a long, low groan that would have been downright amusing, if not for their current predicament.

Amelle cast a rejuvenation spell over Falcon, but the only result was a snort and shudder—reminding Amelle powerfully trying to wake Carver for chores on mornings when frost covered the ground and the animals’ breath steamed the air.  And Falcon, like Carver on those chilly mornings, remained resolutely asleep.  

Varric, on the other hand, tried more non-magical means to wake Cedric.  He circled the shaggy little horse once, examining him from all angles.  He then pulled on the reins, which only dragged Cedric’s head less than an inch across the ground, for all Varric pulled.  Then, continuing to grumble and swear under his breath, Varic strode around the animal again, coming in close to nudge Cedric’s ribs—this  yielded an altogether unsatisfactory result in the form of a long, equine sigh, which resulted in louder grumbling from Varric.  Finally, the dwarf crouched down and grabbed the saddle horn and shook it with all his might.

Cedric began to snore in counterpoint to Falcon.

“This isn’t good,” muttered Varric.

“No,” Amelle answered, sinking back to sit on the ground. “It isn’t.”  

She flexed her fingers and looked at her hands.  The spell the blood mage had cast on her had long faded, but the memory of it lived vibrantly, the sensation that her blood had caught fire and was boiling in her veins, pushing up against her skin, pounding against her eyes, her ears, her throat—and she powerless to do anything but thrash upon the ground, grasping for her mana—a near impossible thing to do when every breath she’d taken had been spent on screams.

Her satchel clinked gently as she shifted upon the ground, and as she reached down to steady it, the bottles within clinked again, musically.  Lifting her head, Amelle looked sharply at the bag, eyes going suddenly wide.  

She still had the bottles of potion Daylen Amell had given her in Kinloch Hold. 

_It’s not much—a rejuvenation potion I blended.  It might help you and your friends—and the horses—a few extra hours of travel time in, wherever it is you’re headed._

She released the buckles and pulled open the bag; the wrapped bottles were still nestled safely within.  She pulled one of the flasks free and looked at it in the sunlight; the liquid still shone a deep, rich orange.  She twisted the cork off and sniffed—it smelled pleasantly of ginger and elfroot, but she couldn’t place anything beyond that.

“What’ve you got there?” Varric asked, stepping carefully over Cedric’s stretched-out legs to join Amelle, dropping down next to her.

“A gift from my cousin.”

“The healer in Kinloch Hold?”

With a nod, Amelle said, “I’ve got a few more bottles in the bag.  It’s a rejuvenation potion.”

Varric looked down at the slumbering Falcon, then up again at Amelle.  “Seems like now might be a good time to use it.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

They dosed Falcon first.  Amelle wasn’t sure how much the animal would need, and had even less of an idea how to get the liquid down his throat without anything resembling a syringe handy.  Dosing Falcon was never what Amelle would have called _easy_ ; when he was awake, the horse had a knack for sending medications flying back at her, his lips and tongue conspiring to make the job as difficult and _messy_ as possible.  

As it turned out, when he was asleep the job wasn’t much easier.  Falcon’s pink tongue slid past his lips and teeth the moment Amelle got his mouth open, and even with Varric’s help holding the animal’s head, Falcon’s tongue flopped out of his mouth, splashing Amelle with rejuvenation potion mixed with half-digested grass.  

“Lovely,” she muttered, smearing one green-streaked hand across her thigh.  “This is supposed to be _less difficult_ when he’s asleep.  Not _more._ ”

Finally, after a great deal of finagling and Amelle agreeing to hold Falcon’s mouth open and keeping his tongue _inside_ the open mouth—and only after spilling nearly half the contents of one bottle onto the ground, Falcon, and Amelle herself—she and Varric finally got the horse’s head at the right angle and dosed Falcon with the potion before massaging his throat.  It took only a moment, but the animal’s dark eyes opened and Varric moved out of the way in time for Falcon to lift his head, still blinking sleepily.  Amelle pushed to her feet and limped back as her horse struggled to gain his footing.  Once upright, he tossed his head and arched his neck as he let out a mighty yawn, his upper and lower jaws moving in opposite directions, that same tongue that had been such an annoyance earlier, now sneaking out past his teeth as his eyes rolled back in his head. He then gave a shake that rippled from his nose all the way back to his tail, looking strangely indignant at the end of it.  

“Sorry to wake you, your highness,” muttered Amelle, moving on to Cedric who was far easier to dose, and woke slowly and clumsily, but with great determination.

Fenris and Isabela rejoined them as they were dosing Agrippa, whose reaction was more akin to Falcon’s.  Fenris stepped in and soothed the agitated mare as she got to her feet, nostrils flaring, tail swishing even more indignantly than Falcon’s had.  Of all the horses, Tango woke with the most grace, getting to his feet and stretching his neck and letting out a long, drawn-out sigh before giving himself a shake, as if he’d relished the nap.

Varric looked at the empty bottle Amelle held after administering the potion to Tango and said, “So we might have to make a stop by your cousin the apothecary’s place if we ever wind up in this neck of the woods again.”

“Varric,” Amelle replied darkly, tucking the flask back into her bag, “if we never wind up in this neck of the woods again, it’ll be too soon.  I can’t say I’m overly fond of this particular neck of the woods.”

“Fond or not, sweet thing,” Isabela said, “Fenris and I pulled some… interesting things off those riders.  It’s probably a good thing we caught their attention.”

Amelle looked between the two of them.  “Define interesting.” 

“Papers,” Isabela explained, but before she could say more, Fenris’ expression darkened.  

“Better we look at the documents… later,” he said.

“I’m almost afraid I’m going to regret asking, but what did you do with—”

“Hawke, you’re too adorably transparent,” Isabela said, shaking her head fondly.  “We got the saddlebags off the horses and buried them, along with anything that might’ve identified the Tevinters.  As for what we _kept…_ ” And here Isabela’s expression turned more serious.  “It’s nothing simple or straightforward.  But Fenris isn’t wrong—we’d be better off stopping for the night first.”

After taking time enough to make sure the animals hadn’t suffered any lasting effects from the spell, Amelle packed away the remaining bottle of potion not smeared with horse saliva or grass stains—or some stringy combination of the two—and approached Falcon’s side.

“Hawke.”  Fenris’ voice came from behind and Amelle stilled, hands gripping the saddle horn, her left foot in the stirrup.  She looked over her shoulder and slowly returned her foot to the ground.  

“Yes?”

He looked for a moment as if he were going to say something, but then only shook his head and crouched down, lacing his hands together.  “Your ankle is still not fully healed,” he said, as if this were the only explanation necessary.  

Amelle stood there a moment, staring down at his hands, white lines stretching down his palms as he waited with as much patience as she’d ever seen him display, when she realized how much she hated seeing him… do this.  No, he wasn’t on his knees or anything so overt, but there was something about the act of it, of… of _lowering_ himself so she could place her muddy boot in his hands, all to get her on the back of a horse she’d been riding since she was a child.  

She hated more that he seemed to know exactly when she most needed that help.

It was with a soft, resigned breath that Amelle let Fenris give her a leg up onto Falcon’s back.  

#

They continued on their way, traveling the hard-packed path through the Coastlands until darkness lengthened shadows into dusk.  Until that point, the horses had shown no signs of fatigue, no adverse effects related to the sleep spell, and Amelle made a mental note to write to Daylen, thanking him for the potions.  And, possibly, to ask the recipe.

When they stopped, it was to make camp in a small clearing lodged within an otherwise dense copse of trees off the main path.  The earth was scarred with previous campfires—a trend they were able to continue, surrounded by plenty of kindling, and all of it dry.  It was a far cry from both the feather beds in Kinloch Hold and the cave that had provided refuge from the rain, but as they made camp and built a fire over which two rabbits roasted, the sky above darkened and stars picked their way out one by one.  It was peaceful and quiet, without rain or pursuing hoofbeats, just the occasional howl of a wolf, or the call of an owl.  

That day and the one previous settled in Amelle’s bones as she sat before the fire, one leg stretched out, her injured foot—newly bandaged after a recent application of healing magic—propped upon her folded saddlebags.  Everything Isabela and Fenris had taken off the dead riders was spread before them—with the possible exception of a sum of money exceeding anything Amelle had seen in the whole of her life, which was stashed safely away in the bottom of her saddlebag—and Amelle’s eyes burned as she squinted at small text, trying to parse the ridiculously thick language.  Varric sat beside her, struggling far less with the documents he was reading.  The gold pince-nez propped upon his nose caught the firelight and reflected it in both glass and gold, the flames winking along the chain that disappeared into Varric’s waistcoat.

“I think we need to count the money again,” Isabela announced.

“None of this makes _sense_ ,” sighed Amelle, tipping her head back and rubbing her eyes.  “And you absolutely do not need to count the money again.”  

“Oh, it makes sense,” Varric muttered.  “Just really slowly and not all at once.”

“I absolutely _do,_ ” protested Isabela.  “Ask Fenris.”

“No, you do not,” he replied, glaring at the document Amelle rested in her lap.  Without a word, he reached for a leather-bound diary—a record of the riders’ travels—and opened it.  “They had come up from Ostagar,” he said quietly.  “And were on their way to Highever.”

Varric nodded, shuffling through the folded documents.  “Looks like they’d visited each of the five mine locations before heading back north.”

“Sealing the deal in Highever?” asked Isabela.  “Possible.  Even likely.  But why stop and visit the mines?”

“To make sure it’s a good investment,” Varric answered, barely looking up from his reading.  “If the mine’s too small or it’s been picked clean and the town around it’s dying, why pour more money into it?”  

Isabela made a small “I suppose so” hum of assent and leaned back against the moss-covered log, draping one tanned arm along the length of it.  “Then why did they have the deeds?” she asked.

The rustling of pages stopped, and only the sounds of crickets and a crackling campfire remained.

“Say that… again, Isabela?” Amelle asked.

“I said, why did they have the deeds at all?  You only get a deed for something if you own it.  And nobody’s carrying cash like that _after_ they’ve bought something, so—”

Varric began to swear and continued to swear in as long a streak as Amelle had ever heard the dwarf utter.  He made a grab for a ribbon-tied packet of papers—the deeds—which he’d already read through several times, and pulled it open.  Amelle, Fenris, and Isabela exchanged curious glances as Varric pushed himself onto his knees and began pulling different documents closer, reading them in the firelight.

“Sneaky bastard,” he muttered.  “That sneaky son of a bitch.”

“You know, Varric,” Amelle drawled, “if you’d made your last installment of _Hot Lead and Cold Lyrium_ this suspenseful, your publisher might’ve given you an advance like you’d asked.”

Varric shot Amelle a good-natured glare over the pince-nez and lifted his eyebrows as he said, “You want me to tell you how a known mage who’s not even a Ferelden citizen can own five lyrium mines or not, Hawke?”

Amelle blinked, then looked down at the various and sundry documents, ledgers, and diaries strewn around them.  “Fair enough.  How?”

“He doesn’t own them at all. Yet.”

“I _knew_ it,” Isabela hissed, slapping one hand against her thigh.  “All that money?”

Amelle shook her head, not  quite following.  “But the deeds…”

“They’re incomplete.”  He flipped to the back page and tapped it with his index finger.  “The buyer’s signed it, but the seller hasn’t.  Seller’s gotta sign it—a witness, too—for the transaction to go through. Legally, anyway. Jury’s out on whether the Archon gives a damn about legality.”

“Doubtful,” Fenris murmured.

“I’m inclined to agree with Broody on this one,” Varric replied.  “These sorts of transactions aren’t ever easy, but what’s here right now?  This is way too much paper for a transaction to be legal.  But here,” he went on, rifling through the other packets of paper before snatching up the small leather book in which one of the riders had made cryptic marks about the different mining towns they’d visited, “here—no, _here_ it references a meeting in Highever.  But…”  his hand went out over the documents, fingers wiggling in thought before plucking up a thin sheaf and flipping through it.  “But whoever the meeting's with, that’s the legal owner, right now.”

Amelle shook her head.  Her ankle had started to throb again, so she inhaled and pushed a wave of healing mana down to the joint.  “Which doesn’t explain how a known mage—and leader of the Imperium, let’s not forget—expects to purchase them,” she said.

“Like I said, there’s a lot of paper here—even more than there ought to be for any sort of standard, legal transaction.  And a whole bunch of names that don’t add up.  Names signed as buyers on deed signature sheets that aren’t attached to any deeds.  I wasn’t sure what to make of it at first, but—”

“Names of… men and women who aren’t mages?” asked Amelle, brows creeping to her hairline.

“Either they aren’t mages or they’re made up completely,” Varric answered with a shrug.  “Could’ve been the riders’ names.  Right now I can only guess.  But what I do know is deeds have to be filed with the chantry, so I’ve got no idea how they expect to pull this off and fool the folks in charge.”

“I do,” Isabela said grimly as she tapped Amelle’s saddlebags with the toe of one boot. “Money.  And lots of it.  That sum’s more than enough to buy mines several times over.  But it might just bribe a few important people into looking the other way.”

“So what happens…” Amelle said, looking down at the puzzle of forms and documentation that was slowly forming an altogether unpleasant picture, “What happens if… if nobody shows up in Highever?  If the money never gets where it’s supposed to go?”

“Depending on how rich the Archon is?”  Varric shook his head. “He’ll send more agents and they’ll start over.”

Fenris’ tone was grim.  “He’s rich enough.”

To that, Varric shrugged.  “Then he’ll try again.  Maybe.  Hard to say.  There’s no way the present owner doesn’t know what’s going on, so chances are good he’ll be willing to wait if it means he’s going to be rich at the end of all this.”

“But what _if_ ,” Isabela drawled, lingering over every word that passed her lips, “what _if_ someone _else_ bought the mines?  Someone _not_ the Archon?”

Varric and Isabela looked at each other for a long moment, an entire conversation telegraphing back and forth past Amelle and Fenris.

Varric arched a thick eyebrow.  “You really think?”

Isabela smirked at him.  “Could work.”

“Might not.”

“With you pulling the strings?” Isabela countered, propping one elbow on the log and leaning forward.

Varric snorted, but a smile hovered around his lips.  “Flattery’ll get you—”

“Anywhere. I know,” Isabela replied, waggling her eyebrows.

“Anyone care to let either of us in on whatever sordid plot you’re hatching?” asked Amelle, patience running thin.

Varric grinned in the firelight.  “How do you feel about owning a few lyrium mines, Hawke?”

#

Varric’s question hung in the silence.  Hawke only gaped at the dwarf, but Fenris had no difficulty whatsoever finding his voice.

“If your goal is to get us all killed,” he snapped, “it’s an excellent plan.”

 Perhaps they had a limited idea of the type of people they’d be dealing with, but Fenris’ knowledge of the Tevinters was uncomfortably intimate.  And the Archon—Fenris was certain—would not be so sanguine about losing the opportunity to control such a vast amount of lyrium.  It would have been bad enough had they been dealing with a magister; the Archon was no mere magister, and this was not the sort of interference that would go unnoticed.  Or unpunished.

And yet Varric and Isabela looked entirely unworried.  But Hawke… Hawke looked troubled, and that provided Fenris surprising reassurance.

“You’ve got a flair for the dramatic, haven’t you?” murmured Isabela, meeting his answering glare with an arched eyebrow.  “Listen.  At first light, I’ll ride back and dig up the saddlebags.  If I’m right—and I usually _am_ —there’ll be a few changes of clothes in there and there’ll be no need to—”

“Take clothes off dead bodies,” Hawke finished for her, her jaw tight with disapproval;she, at least, still had her wits about her.  “Isabela, you really need to keep talking—and fast—because this still sounding like your worst idea in recent memory—which, believe me, is saying something—and I don’t think you have much longer to convince me otherwise.”  

“We get into that sale, posing as the Archon’s agents.  Then sit through whatever rigamarole it’s going to take—”

“And watch while we facilitate the sale of a lyrium mine to the leader of the Imperium?” Hawke interrupted, glaring.  “Definitely your worst idea.”

Isabela only shook her head and gestured grandly at Varric, who shrugged and tucked his pince-nez away in a pocket, as if what he were about to suggest was the most normal, obvious thing in the world.  “We change up the documents so _you’re_ the buyer, not the Archon.”

Hawke blinked and stared.  “You’re going to… forge official documents.”

“Correction.  I’m going to forge documents that are of dubious legality _anyway._ ”

Fenris stared between Varric and Isabela.  “And you honestly believe such a plan stands any chance whatsoever of _working?_ Do you truly think the Archon will make no such distinction between the legality of his documents and the adjusted legality of yours?”  

“Thank you, Fenris,” said Hawke.  “You’ve read my mind.”

“Listen, elf, if the Archon were going about this legally,” Varric explained, “we’d have no chance.  He’d have the chantry on his side, for one, and they’re a bunch of miserable bean-counters.”

“And since he’s already got his hand in the cookie jar, so to speak,” added Isabela, “it’s not as if he’s on any sort of moral high ground here.”

Pushing to his feet, Fenris shook his head and as he began to pace the length of the small campsite, he spared a glance at Hawke, her foot propped up, the ankle still swollen beneath the bandages.  She had risked too much already; she’d endangered herself simply by saving him, by healing him and taking him in.  Involvement in a scheme such as this would doubtless put her within the Archon’s notice, and the prospect of such a thing occurring sent something sharp twisting through his gut.

“Even if this plan does work,” he said, slicing the air with one hand, “have you no idea the danger Hawke would find herself in for moving against the most powerful man in the Imperium in such a way?  It will be her name on the documents— _she_ will be listed as the owner of those mines.  The chantry’s only concern is that she isn’t a known mage; the Archon will not care what she is, only that she stole from him.”

“This is a far more convincing argument,” Hawke interjected.  “I’ll be the first to admit we play fast and loose with the rules more often than not, but this… this is big.  A lot bigger than anything we’ve ever attempted before.  _Leagues_ bigger than selling questionable potions off the back of a wagon.”

“Your potions aren’t all questionable,” Varric said, shooting Hawke a look.

“Of course not,” Hawke retorted, looking very nearly offended.

“And why not?”

“For starters? Because when people are sick, they’ve got more important things to worry about than whether some charlatan’s going to try to take them for all they’re worth.  If I’m going to cheat somebody, it’s going to be somebody who—”

“Deserves it,” Isabela finished for her.  

Hawke made a face.  But she didn’t argue.  Fenris stared at her, and after too many seconds she looked up to meet his gaze; looking pained, she glanced away again and began grinding her teeth.

“You aren’t honestly considering this,” he said to Hawke, his voice low.

“Well.  We’re going to have to _prepare_ , certainly,” Isabela sniffed.

“Listen,” Varric said, collecting the piles of papers and books.  Hawke’s head swiveled back in his direction.  “You’ve said before you’re getting tired of the travel.  You get this kind of income, and you can start traveling for pleasure instead of business.”

Hawke sighed, rubbing her forehead, still avoiding Fenris’ eyes.  “I—this isn’t a good idea.  I’m a _mage._   Remember?  I can’t even _own_ property.”

“Correction,” Varric said, holding up a finger.  “What you _aren’t_ is a _known_ mage.  Just don’t become… known.”

Hawke’s fingers stilled against her forehead and she closed her eyes.  “You know, I think there’s a sanitarium in Highever. I ought to leave you both there.”

“I’ve got to admit, I’m surprised you’re having such a problem with this,” Varric observed, returning everything to Hawke’s leather bag.

She dropped both hands to her lap and sent Varric an exhausted glare.  “Fenris’ concerns aside—and let me say now how valid they are—one,” she held up one finger, “I’ve never owned a lyrium mine and wouldn’t know the first thing about running it.”  She held up a second finger.  “Two, just how many camps have we come across, Varric, that’ve been populated with lyrium-sick miners I’ve drained my mana healing?  I’m not contributing to _that,_ I don’t care how rich it makes me.”  A third finger unfolded from her hand.  “Three, I don’t know what the Archon was planning to do with all that lyrium, and I’m too afraid to speculate, but the chantry _still_ controls the trade.  I might own the mines—if I even went through with this, and I’m not saying I will, or am even thinking about it—but it’s the chantry who’ll be controlling who gets the lyrium, and perhaps you find this hard to believe, but I’d rather not contribute to _that,_ either.  Do you want me to go on?  Because I could.”

“Kitten,” Isabela said, her tone startlingly sincere, “you still want to keep it from falling into the hands of anyone who makes their living in the slave trade.”  Her amber gaze slide from Hawke to Fenris, before settling pointedly on Hawke.  “Chantry or no chantry, control of that much lyrium would be an instant infusion of power for anyone.”

And there it was, laid bare in the firelight, the ugly truth of the matter.

So ugly was it that a bolt of shame tightened in Fenris’ gut that his own worries were so focused on the pressing concern they would face retribution for deceiving the Archon in this way.  But a more powerful Imperium would not be one he could run from forever.  It was a matter of choosing between the vaster, more amorphous danger and the sharper, more immediate one.

His own concerns were quite firmly focused on the current threat.  No, he didn’t wish to see the Imperium gain more power either, but was this truly their only option to prevent such a plan from taking shape?

And if it was their only option, what were they supposed to do about it?

Much as Fenris hated to admit it, as ill as the knowledge made him, Isabela was right.  And from the expression settling onto Hawke’s features, she agreed.

Finally, with a sigh, Hawke said, “We’ll talk about it more… later.  Isabela, ride back first thing and see what you can salvage.  Bring back whatever you can and we’ll see what we can do, if anything.  Before you go, we’ll distribute Tango’s load to the other horses so he won’t be slowed down by weight.”

And with Isabela’s nod, the subject was closed for the evening.  

Night grew thicker, and the stars picked their way out of the night sky one by one.  Varric produced a deck of cards and tried to entice Hawke and Fenris to play, but Hawke shook her head, wearily.

“I’d be better served placing that concentration elsewhere,” she said, gesturing at her ankle.  “Or sleeping.  Maker, I miss sleep.”

“Highever, Hawke,” Varric reminded her as he shuffled the cards.  “Feather beds in Highever.”

With a sigh, Hawke’s hands lit with healing magic as she turned her attention once more to her ankle.  “You know, I’d probably feel better about that if there weren’t worse things there, too.”

But whether Hawke meant templars or Tevinters, Fenris didn’t know.

#

Later, after the cards had been played and watch had been determined—Hawke insisted on first watch, so she’d have time to devote to healing her ankle with more time to rest it afterward—they slept.  

Fenris’ dreams were dark and twisted—more so than they’d been of late.  

_Black shadows stretched like groping hands across a bare, jagged landscape, with him running, always running, forever running, stumbling, falling, pushing to his feet and running again, a race against the shadows threatening to smother him, to swallow him, or worse.  Rocks tore at his bare feet as he ran and ran and ran, always alone, ever alone, with nothing—no one—stretching out for miles ahead, and grasping shadows behind.  A chasm yawned before him, too wide for him to jump—too, too wide, and he knew it, but there was blackness behind him, breathing a foul breath down his neck.  Worse things would happen if he were caught, ensnared in darkness and shadow.  There were always worse things._

_He ran.  He jumped.  He fell._

_Worse things, even, than death._

Fenris woke with a start and a gasp.  There was nothing of the bleak landscape; he was surrounded by lush, dark pines, with a star-studded sky above. And though there were shadows, the warmth and light of the cheerfully blazing fire kept them at bay.  He swallowed hard and blinked, willing the nightmare to fade and his heartbeat to slow.

“Bad dreams?”

He wasn’t alone, either.

Hawke sat before the fire, her foot propped up and one of the bundles of legal (or not, as actually seemed to be the case) documents in her lap, forgotten.  She was watching him, her lips pressed together in thought, her brow furrowed in a way that made him wonder just what she saw.  He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.  After a moment she looked down, folding the papers and retying them.  Fenris’ answer was barely more than a grunt, but she nodded all the same.  “You’ve been tossing and turning a while now.”

Fenris swallowed hard.  At least he’d not woken the forest with screams.  Too many nights after his escape had he jerked awake, his body soaked through with sweat, his throat raw.

Small favors, indeed.

“Tea?” she asked, reaching for the dented tin kettle.

“No,” he replied, sitting up slowly.  Then shook his head.  “Yes.”

Hawke nodded and poured water from a canteen into the kettle, mana flaring from her hands as she heated it.

“Quicker this way,” she said, answering the unspoken question sketching itself across his face.

“I will take next watch.”

“First watch is hardly over. You’ve been asleep for an hour, maybe two.”

“Even so.”

She sent him a sidelong glance.  “That bad?”

Fenris considered dissembling, but he was tired—as if he had been running for countless miles—and there was no point to it.  “…Yes.”

To her credit, she didn’t ask.  She merely added tea to the kettle and waited.  When Hawke did finally speak, it was to change the subject, shifting it—thankfully—away from his dreams.

“So, what do you think of Varric’s plan?” she asked.

Casting an eye to the slumbering dwarf, Fenris snorted and shook his head.  “Beyond being reckless and sure to fail?”

Hawke smiled, but there was a strange sort of melancholy to it.  “Beyond that, yes.”

He pushed a hand through his hair and gave a weary sigh.  “If you want the truth of it, I would rather nobody owned those mines.”

Hawke nodded once, murmuring, “Better they be shut down and closed forever?”

“Indeed. But… that will not happen.”

“No, it won’t,” she agreed, staring down at the kettle, running her thumb over the handle.  “Not until the mines are scraped dry.”  When Fenris didn’t say any more, Hawke’s expression turned moody; the expression didn’t suit her, he thought.  “If we do nothing,” she said, shaking her head and glaring down at the steaming kettle, “those mines could be under Imperium control in under a month.  They’ve got their song and dance all rehearsed, while we’re struggling to make up the steps.”

“Yet if…we—” oh, and that word tasted strange on his tongue, “—do… something…”

“I’m in deep, _deep_ trouble, anybody finds out I’m a mage.”  A raw, frustrated noise tore from deep in her throat.  “Daddy always warned me never to get involved.  But do I listen?  Do I ever?  _No._ ”

“Involved?” he asked. “In what?”

“Anything,” she answered, gesturing futilely with one hand while pouring tea with the other.  “Everything.  Hopeless cases.  Risky schemes.”  Hawke handed him a scratched and battered tin mug.  “Sometimes it’s advice I wish I were better at following.”

He took the cup between his hands, letting its warmth sink into his skin as he turned over his words.  “Hawke, had you elected not to involve yourself in my… problem—”

Hawke paused in pouring her own tea long enough to snort and shoot him an eloquent look.  “A delicate way to describe that predicament if ever I heard one.”

“Perhaps.  In any case, had you elected not to get involved, I likely would be dead now, or as good as it.”

Hawke barely let him finish before she started shaking her head.  “That’s—”

“Entirely true,” he replied, lifting his chin and meeting her eyes.  Hawke fell miraculously silent, though not without a glower—the expression was… amusingly out of place on her face.  After a moment, one eyebrow arched toward her hairline.

“Something funny?” Hawke asked.  Too late, Fenris realized he’d been smiling.  Schooling his expression into something more neutral, he shook his head.  “Not in the least.”

She did not look as if she believed him—to that end, he wasn’t sure if he believed _himself_.  As silence settled around them, Fenris brought the cup to his lips, breathing in the scented steam that curled in tendrils from the cup; he exhaled slowly as his heat sunk further into his palms, his fingers. Somewhere at the top of his spine, tightly-wound tension began to release.  He took a sip from the mug and closed his eyes; around him crickets sang, mingling with Varric’s low snores and the crackle of the fire.  Tipping his head back, Fenris opened his eyes to the sky.  The crescent moon was a sliver of light hanging above the pines.  To his right, the flare of Hawke’s magic competed with the campfire’s light as she focused another round of healing energy upon her ankle.

In his dream, he’d been alone.  His fear perhaps, but—dare he think it?—perhaps this was not the reality.

_“I put too much healing into you to let anyone undo my hard work, Fenris.  Not Danarius, not the Archon, not even one of the Old Gods, should one of them see fit to turn up.”_

“I believe owe you an apology,” Fenris said at last.  _Perhaps more than one,_ he thought, feeling a sudden bolt of discomfiture at the memory of Hawke’s mouth against his _._ It wasn’t shame or embarrassment, no, this prickling at the nape of his neck was something else less easily named.  It had seemed the obvious thing to do at that time, in that moment, and then what had started out as an act in the name of verisimilitude then slid into something else entirely.  He hadn’t expected Hawke to… _respond._   He hadn’t anticipated his own response, for that matter. 

“No, you don’t,” replied Hawke, breaking into his thoughts.  She was gazing skyward as well.

 It had been rash and impulsive and entirely unlike him, that much was certain, and yet Fenris could not quite banish the memory of Hawke’s mouth working greedily against his, the way she’d mewled against his mouth, clutching at him.  Nor could he forget the way her hair had parted beneath his fingers, or how his heart had thundered in his chest with every gliding swipe of her tongue.

“How can you be so certain?”

Hawke leaned back against the heavy log, head still tilted back.  A smile played at her lips a moment before she answered, “Because I’m not feeling offended, insulted, or put-upon.”  Pulling her gaze from the sky and settling it on him, she added, “Which tells me you haven’t done anything worth apologizing for.”

“I…in the tower.  I should not have… taken such a liberty without warning you in advance.”

In the silence that unfurled, Hawke’s throat moved as she swallowed. Another moment passed and she licked her lips.  “You tried apologizing once, and I told you then it wasn’t necessary.  That hasn’t changed.  I… I think I understand why you did it, Fenris.”

_Do you?_

But Fenris said nothing at all to betray his thoughts. 


	20. Chapter 20

With Tango’s load lightened, Isabela set off before dawn, the rhythmic pound of hoofbeats against earth a low thrum that barely disturbed the gentle birdsong drifting down from the high pines.  Amelle watched her go, until Tango’s cherry chestnut coat blended and faded into the predawn mist. Behind her, Varric and Fenris busied themselves breaking camp as they readied their own departure.  She checked Falcon’s saddlebags once more, eyeing his load.

“She’ll be fine,” Varric said, tightening the straps on Cedric’s pack as the shaggy little horse lowered his head and tore up a mouthful of grass, chewing placidly.  “Much as she claims to hate horses, one thing Rivaini does love is speed.  I’d be surprised if she doesn’t catch up with us before Highever.”

“Speaking of which,” Amelle replied, stretching out her ankle and rotating it—there was a hint of stiffness, but no pain.  “What exactly are we going to do about Highever?”

Varric waved a gloved hand.  “Falcon’s _also_ going to be fine. We aren’t the first people in the world to board horses.”

“I think,” Fenris interjected as he crouched by the dying embers of their fire, covering it with dirt, “Hawke’s concern lies more with your idea she should swindle the Archon.” He stood, brushing his hands clean.

“You don’t mince words, do you, Broody?”

Fenris stared intently at the fading ashes.  “I don’t make a habit of it.”

Amelle watched Fenris’ profile a moment, turning over their brief conversation the night before.  They’d reached no satisfactory answer as to whether she ought to agree to this scheme of Varric’s, and while Amelle was sure the smart thing to do was to burn those documents and tell Varric they were sailing to Kirkwall at the earliest opportunity… 

She couldn’t.

Walking away was the smart thing to do. The safe thing to do.

But it wasn’t what _she_ was going to do.  Amelle knew that much.  Her gut wouldn’t let her walk away from this.  She didn’t particularly _want_ a lyrium mine—to say nothing of several—but neither did she want that much power to go into the hands of slavers.  Let them use their own lyrium, if they were going to use any at all.  What in all the Void did they need Ferelden mines for?  And why so many?

“You said something last night about a plan?” Amelle asked Varric, keeping her tone as neutral as she knew how, running her hands across Falcon’s tack, checking everything one more time.

“By _plan,_ ” he said, “I’m going to assume you mean how I expect us to get through the transaction unscathed?”

Casting the dwarf a sidelong glance, she replied, “That’s an accurate way of putting it, yes.”

“Have you ever known me to not have a plan?”

Amelle laughed despite herself.  “Do you really want me to answer that?  Because there was that near brush with the authorities in Amaranthine—“

His thick brows drew together in a frown.  “Hey, I thought we agreed never to bring that up again.”

“ _You_ agreed never to bring that up again,” Amelle corrected him.  “I saved your hide and it’s sheer luck on your part and my own good nature that’s kept me from reminding you.  Daily.”  

“Saved my hide.  Hah.”  Varric gave a snort and, deciding that Cedric’s pack was strapped securely enough, turned away from the animal to shoot Amelle a _look._   “That’s an interesting way of putting it.  Fluttered your baby-greens at a couple of Grey Wardens—“

“There was no _fluttering._   I just asked them to intervene on behalf of my poor, inebriated dwarven friend.”

“Inebriated,” Varric scoffed, crossing his arms.  “You’ve never seen me inebriated, Hawke, and you know why?”

“Do you really think you’re in any position to split hairs over this?”

He went on as if she hadn’t spoken.  “Because you’re already under the table by the time I get there.”

“What are you so upset about?  It was either a slight dent to your manly dwarven pride or a jail cell for forty-eight hours—or worse.  _Without_ Bianca, I might add.  I did what I had to do. And it worked.  Thus it is my deepest hope you have a plan for Highever so we don’t have another Amaranthine on our hands.”

“We won’t. Believe me, that was one learning experience I don’t ever want to repeat.”  Varric held up one hand, silencing Amelle before she could interrupt.  “A lot of it depends on what Rivaini carries back with her to Highever, but from the looks of those journals, we’ll have some time to prepare if we need to.”

“How much time?”

“Couple days—which should be plenty.”

Amelle was not feeling particularly reassured, and her expression showed it.  Varric read the crease between her brows and the downward pull of her mouth with the ease of a master, and nodded once to himself.  “All right,” he said.  “Once we’re saddled up and on our way, I’ll tell you just how I think this is going to have to play out if it’s going to work.  And what we’re going to have to do so we don’t have another Amaranthine.”

“Why wait?” asked Fenris.

Varric shrugged.  “Figured we could use something to pass the time.”

#

By the time they reached Highever, the sun was high above in the midmorning sky, and Amelle found herself in some ways less concerned with just how they were going to pull this off, and in some ways _more_ concerned.  Fenris remained quiet for most of the ride, which wasn’t unlike him, but the quality of silence had, with every mile, inched its way under Amelle’s skin.  She already knew he wasn’t particularly thrilled with the idea—she wasn’t either, but when you came right down to it, Amelle disliked the consequences of inaction more than she disliked the consequences of action.

 _Assuming_ Varric’s plan worked.  And if they could get all the pieces in place beforehand, there was no reason it wouldn’t work.

Problem was, getting all the pieces in place beforehand was going to be a hell of an undertaking.

In the meantime, though, there was Highever.

There were a number of things Highever had going for it, the first being a port city with the closest routes to the Free Marches; Amaranthine was a cheaper port, but it was further away (convenience had its price), which made all the difference in the world when it came to shipping livestock, tourists, and imports of the edible variety.  Not only did the port receive imports, but it was also a hub for exports, many of them originating from Highever itself—handcrafted furniture, cheeses, and a rich port wine coveted all over Thedas.

It was also the hometown of the one and only Elinora Cousland, wife to Ferelden’s Governor Alistair Theirin, but a person of note in her own right.  When a blight and famine struck Ferelden, starving its people and destroying its livelihood, the politicians collapsed in on themselves—the assassination of the previous governor, Alistair’s elder brother Cailan, led to political machinations far and beyond Amelle’s understanding.  In response to the chaos, the younger Cousland had joined the Grey Agency and the ranks of its security investigators, called “Wardens,” while her brother had worked to keep Highever from falling apart in the tumult.  Working independently, the Grey Agency brought to light extensive corruption within Ferelden’s political ranks.  Once the infighting and backbiting was eliminated, and a special election held to fill the newly empty offices, Ferelden had been able to start the process of healing and recovery, and Cousland had been promoted to Chief Director of the Greys.  Some people grumbled, because it was seen as a conflict of interest, given she wound up marrying the newly-minted governor, but Amelle mostly thought it showed good taste on Theirin’s part, since the Greys were, among other things, a top-notch security organization.  Nobody was going to try and kill a man whose wife’s skill with a pistol was legendary and second only to her skill with a rifle.  

There were rumors and tall-tales abound about Elinora Cousland, but there was one thing you could always take to the bank: Highever loved its daughter unabashedly and unapologetically.  It was a place that had something (someone, in this case) to be proud of, and that pride became a part of Highever’s personality.  It was clean, pleasant, and very cosmopolitan; it wasn’t the bustling capitol city Denerim was, which sometimes made business slow, and sometimes downright difficult for Amelle, Varric, and Isabela if and when they traveled that way, but it was always an interesting stopover, one way or another.

As they rode through the city gates, the first thing that caught Amelle’s attention was just how _busy_ it was.  The air smelled as if a bakery somewhere had exploded, the sweet sugary scent of cakes and sweet breads sending Amelle’s mouth watering.  She’d never had a bad meal in Highever, and she doubted that was going to change anytime soon.

While Highever had never been a particularly placid, sleepy town, the streets  buzzed with activity that appeared at first glance to be positively manic; one cart loaded with reams upon reams of blue and silver bunting rolled by, passing another laden with more hothouse flowers than Amelle had seen in the whole of her life, and yet another carrying heavy wooden crates covered in foreign stamps, all three pulled by donkeys entirely unimpressed with the commotion.  At least two dozen industrious souls were in the town square, decorating it with the very silver and blue bunting that had just trundled by, one harried young woman standing in the midst of the madness bemoaning the daffodils planted in the square.

“The flowers _clash_ against the silver,” she cried, “we can’t have the silver, it _clashes_ with the daffodils!”

“Cousland crest’s these colors,” a grizzled, older man said, shouldering a roll of blue fabric.  “And daffodils’re the lady’s favorite flowers. She donated the bulbs for the square herself.”

“But they clash!” the young woman wailed.  From within the Griffon Playhouse across the way there came the strains of what sounded suspiciously like a brass band tuning up to practice.  And at the sharp, discordant cacophony pouring through open doors and windows, the woman’s evident frustration ratcheted even higher; she spun and sent a glare in the offending direction while the older man hid his chuckle behind a cough.

“Take it up with Miz Elinora, Minny,” he returned over the noise with a shrug, likely knowing full well nobody would be taking anything up with the governor’s wife.

They rode on past the square to the stables, which were lacking any extra ornamentation—so far, anyway—and dismounted.  A ginger dwarf came out from the stable’s shadows, recognizing Varric immediately.  He was intensely freckled and broad-chested, wearing a long, leather apron, holding a pair of copper tongs in hand.

“About damned time,” he said on a gravelly bark of laughter, clapping Varric hard on the back. Varric winced, rotating his shoulder once, but the other dwarf took no notice. “A few storms rolled through, figured they slowed you down.”

“Yeah,” Varric admitted with a nod, “we ran into a little…” he slanted a look Amelle’s way.  “A little weather.”

“When’s your ship leave?”

“A few days yet,” Varric replied.  “We’ll have some time for a little sightseeing.”  Here, he turned to Amelle and Fenris.  “Hawke, this is Orlin.  I’ve told you about him.  Orlin, Hawke.”

“Ah, yes.  He who’ll be watching over our horses awhile,” Amelle said, stepping forward and extending her hand.  Orlin dropped the tongs with a clatter and captured her hand in both of his.  Heavily calloused with curls of ginger hair on his knuckles, Amelle couldn’t help but feel like she was shaking hands with an exceptionally friendly and enthusiastic red bear.

“So you’re Hawke,” he said, chuckling as he pumped her arm.  “Old Varric’s definitely told me about you. Never quite able to get away when y’all come into town, too much work to do, but Varric’s told me all about you.  Hear you’re a hell of a healer.  That’s good work.  Solid work.  People’re always comin’ down sick.”

Amelle blinked, sending Varric a quick glance.  “That they are,” she agreed, somewhat adrift in the conversation.  How much had Varric told?  Not everything, she was sure, but— “No shortage of work, that’s for certain,” she said, finally.

“So, uh, Orlin,” Varric said, deftly sliding between them and extricating Amelle’s hand from Orlin’s grip just as deftly.  Hiding her hand behind her back, Amelle flexed her fingers and shook out her hand; Orlin didn’t have any trouble with his grip, that was for damned sure.  

“How about we get these horses settled?” Varric went on.  “The Rivaini’s coming along too—she’ll be here later.”

“Think she’ll finally sell me that cherry gelding of hers?”

With a laugh, Varric shook his head and said, “I think you’ve got a better chance of getting her to sell you her own skin.”  He shot Amelle a look.  “Hawke, you and the elf see about some rooms. I’ll catch up with Orlin here, and  you come and get me when you’re done.”

The look in his eyes spoke volumes: _Please, please come and get me when you’re done._

“Y’know,” Orlin said, stooping to pick up his tongs, dusting them off against his thigh, “you’re lucky you reached town today.  Expecting a hell of a crowd  rest of the week.”  At Varric and Amelle’s blank looks, he added, “Elinora Cousland’s nameday.  Highever does it up big every year.”

“I don’t think we’ve ever been in town for it,” Amelle said, glancing Varric’s way.  

He shook his head.  “No, pretty sure I’d remember that.”

“Not the sort of thing anyone forgets,” Orlin told them.  “The lady likes coming home for the festivities, and Highever likes to deliver.”

Varric blinked once, and in that tiny span of time, a thousand puzzle pieces fell into place with a nearly audible click.  He blinked again, shooting Amelle a barely perceptible glance.  “Lots of people, huh?”

“Highever’s packed stem to stern every year.”

“Festivities?”

“Far as I know, even the chantry takes a few days off.”

Varric darted another quick glance her way.  “Sounds like fun,” he said, arching an exceptionally pointed eyebrow her way.

“It is,” Orlin agreed, oblivious.  “You’ve never been to Highever ‘till you’ve been around for Miz Elinora’s nameday.  Better than First Day, Wintersend, and Satinalia all together.”  He chuckled, rocking back on his heels and hooking his thumbs in his apron.  “The lady knows how to throw a party, that’s the truth.”

Varric was nodding slowly throughout this speech.  “Sounds it.”  And then he slung one arm around Orlin’s shoulders and steered him into the stables while the grooms helped unload the horses.  His voice drifted back a moment before the two disappeared from sight entirely:  “So, Orlin, why don’t you tell me more about these… festivities.”

Shaking her head, Amelle adjusted her satchel and turned to find Fenris watching her intently, his expression inscrutable.  She lifted her eyebrows in tacit invitation, that he might tell her what was on his mind.  He closed his eyes and shook his head, silently declining.  It was hardly a surprise, but still Amelle dropped her gaze to the buckles on her satchel, fiddling needlessly with them—it was easy enough to hide the pang of disappointment, harder for her to ignore it.

But then, once they were halfway down the street to the hotel, Highever Arms, Fenris tipped his head towards hers and said in a low tone, “Such festivities would likely tip the balance into chaos.”

“The thought occurred to me,” Amelle murmured back as they walked, ignoring the way the low timbre of Fenris’ voice sent something pleasant chasing down her spine.  “And if it’s such that even the chantry takes time off…”

“All the easier for… certain transactions to be executed without notice.”

Amelle cast a look over her shoulder, back at the stables.  “That hadn’t escaped my attention either.”

#

It was, Fenris decided, entirely unsurprising.  He’d wondered how the Archon had planned to proceed with a fraudulent—to say nothing of illegal—sale; he’d counted on the man’s ego to play a part in the matter, but even taking that sizable factor into consideration, it simply hadn’t made sense.  The leader of the Imperium hadn’t ascended to the position on charm and kindness; he was ruthless and cunning, and above all, _intelligent._

It was little more than a shell game, played on a larger scale, for higher stakes—wait until the prying eyes of authority were distracted before employing sleight of hand to win the game.

Fenris had no doubt Varric knew precisely how a shell game worked.  He had no doubt the dwarf’s plan was sound.  But the problem with a shell game—any shell game—was that it was fundamentally unwinnable, unless you were the one holding the shells.  And Fenris wasn’t convinced _they_ were the ones holding the shells.

And yet, the very advantage the Archon was going to employ—this fete—could potentially work for them as well.

_Potentially._

“You’ve been quiet,” Hawke said as they strode in silence along Highever’s main thoroughfare, a quietly-bustling tree-dotted street lined with shops of every stripe.  Even the saloon looked respectable.  “More so than usual,” she added.  

“Have I?”

“I don’t think you said three words together from when we broke camp to when we hit Highever.”

Fenris’ reply was more silence as he frowned.  Hawke breathed a laugh—a surprising response.

“Yes, just like that,” she said.

After a moment of struggling to find the words, the ones he finally settled on were wholly inadequate. “I find myself concerned.”  

This time, Hawke owned the silence.  “Ah,” she finally said.  “That.”

“Yes.  That.”  They walked a few steps before he went on to add, “In light of…” he looked over his shoulder at the townspeople still decorating the square, “certain developments, some aspects of Varric’s plan are… less worrisome than they might otherwise have been.  That said, I fear there are elements you have not given all due consideration.”

“Such as?”

They stepped into the shade cast by a tall building—the inn—and Fenris stepped around to face Hawke. He leaned close, his voice no less fierce for lowering it.  “The Archon will not be so sanguine about this, should it work, should you acquire mines he doubtless already counts as his.  Do not fool yourself into thinking it is the chantry you must fear.  It is the Archon.”

She did not patronize him, as he’d feared.  Nor did she argue with him, which he’d also feared.  In fact, Hawke did none of the things Fenris was certain she’d do upon hearing his words.  Instead, she pursed her lips and stared down at the tips of her boots for a very long moment.

“You think he’d try to find me,” she said, still looking down.

“I think—“ _I fear_ “—he will hunt you until he does.”

Hawke raised her eyes to meet his.  A horse-drawn cart clacked by, heavy with hay-bales, the driver shouting a greeting at one of the passerby, but she did not startle; instead, her lips pulled into a smile the quality of which he could not quite identify.

“And what if I told you I had already considered that consequence?”

Fenris exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.  “I… would have to confess my relief.”

Now the smile’s quality turned vaguely amused, almost privately so.  “Confess away, then, Fenris.”

Blood warmed his cheeks suddenly; the tone of her voice conspired with the curve at her lips, and suddenly they stood too close, and yet not nearly close enough.  Fenris coughed suddenly, stepping away from Hawke and towards the inn.  “Then I am relieved,” he said, looking up at the large hotel—Highever Arms was nearly Kinloch Hold’s match for grandeur.  “But I am not fool enough to believe awareness alone will be sufficient.”

“Well, no,” she replied, falling into step beside him.  “It so happens we’re sneaky, too.”  

At his glare, Hawke allowed herself a chuckle, then apologized.  “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to think I’m not… taking this seriously, or that I haven’t given all due consideration to the many, many ways this could go horribly sideways.  I am.  And I have.  But at the end of the day, it’s more important to me that they _don’t_ get the lyrium mines, than whether or not I do.  And, at the end of that same day, I trust Varric.”

“With your life?”

There wasn’t so much as a breath of hesitation on her reply.  “With my life.”

The certainty in her answer probably ought to have reassured him; instead, Fenris found himself… troubled by it, by the fact Hawke _would_ trust anyone— _anyone_ —so implicitly.  Granted, she had known the dwarf far longer—and knew him far better—than Fenris did, but it had also long been Fenris’ experience that anyone could be bought.  Everyone had a price.  That Hawke was so certain of Varric’s loyalty… was a concept entirely foreign to him.

“And you truly believe he can… hide you?” he asked, taking no pains to hide the doubt in his tone.

She didn’t reply right away; in fact, it took nearly a full minute for Hawke to gather her words.  “I know what I have seen Varric accomplish in the past.  I know his work, and I know it’s good.”  She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully as she looked at him, and prickling, uncomfortable heat spiked a path up his spine, blooming at the nape of his neck.  “I won’t ask you to trust Varric,” she finally said, her voice so low he fought the urge to lean closer to hear her.  “I only ask that you trust me.”

Fenris realized, suddenly, _uncomfortably,_ that he _did._

The epiphany was still haunting him later, after they’d settled into their rooms.  After he’d washed days of sweat and grime and river-stink from his skin.  After he’d let his weight sink into the soft warmth of feathers and eiderdown, his heavy head resting upon a pillow for the first time since Kinloch Hold.

It was not a realization he was particularly at ease with, but it was one that had been creeping in the shadows around him for some time now.  And perhaps it had been the moment when they’d faced the Archon’s riders—together—after Fenris had battled his own doubts and fears, his own dreaded certainties that hadn’t been certainties at all, in the end.  

Hawke had stood by him when no one else would have.

Her words rang through his memory as he lay upon the bed, hands laced behind his head, watching the midday sun pour unrelentingly through the wide windows, catching motes and casting sparse shadows: _“We have only free men here.  Fenris is one such free man.”_

A free man.  Words he had never dared think, much less utter, and this woman, this _mage,_ had all but shouted them at the very people who would have brought him back to Danarius without compunction.

Yes, he trusted her.  Whatever shades of uncertainty had been lingering before, they were well and truly exorcised now, and if Hawke believed Varric’s plan would protect her, then Fenris would do all that was within his power to make sure it did.


	21. Chapter 21

Denerim may have had lovely fabrics and Amaranthine a fine selection of imported leather goods, but nobody had Highever’s dresses.

After rescuing Varric from Orlin, it had taken a thorough soaking and intense scrubbing before Amelle even thought she might someday begin to  feel clean again. A short nap later, she’d been standing in a dressing gown, frowning at the perfectly respectable, perfectly clean trousers and shirt laid out on her bed.  

Behind her, the butter-yellow muslin had hung, recently returned from the laundress, freshly pressed, fluttering invitingly.  She’d glanced outside, then—outside, with its clear skies, its daffodils swaying in the breeze, the cheerful shouts of Highever being swathed in reams of blue and silver. 

The town’s festive anticipation—and Amelle’s yellow muslin—had won out in the end.  And now, as she strolled slowly down Main Street, Amelle didn’t regret her decision one bit.  The day was mild enough she didn’t need a shawl; her thin wrap hung from one arm as she meandered, lost in the flowing silken confections taunting her from the other side of the dressmaker’s window.

Then her steps slowed to a stop and Amelle’s breath caught

 _So impractical,_ Amelle told herself.

 _So perfect,_ came the reply, spiraling up from the depths of her.

And it was.  Perfect _and_ impractical, but mostly perfect.  And precisely what she needed.  Before she’d seen him to his door, Varric had told her she’d need a particularly convincing costume change.  And the midnight blue silk and flocked velvet interwoven with silver thread absolutely fit the bill.

“Oh, _kitten._   You _need_ that.”  Isabela’s smoke and whisky voice by her ear was enough to make Amelle startle, but she recovered in time to shoot the other woman a mild glare over her shoulder.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I agree.”  She stepped to one side, turning to face Isabela.  “When did you get back?”

“Mm, awhile ago.  Long enough for a bath.  Andraste’s tits, but I stunk.”

“Join the club,” replied Amelle on a chuckle, even as her eyes slid back to the dress in the window.

“You’ll only find out how perfect it is if you go in, you know,” Isabela told her, bumping Amelle’s hip with her own.  “Why don’t we go inside and take more of a look?” Amelle, never a match for Isabela’s reflexes, was arm in arm with the other woman and being towed through the door before she fully realized it.  By this point it hardly mattered that Amelle had decided she did in fact need the dress—Isabela was going to talk her into it anyway.

Inside the shop the climate was much as it was around the rest of Highever.  Three other women were being fitted for frocks, seamstresses and assistants buzzing around like so many determined worker bees.  Paying no attention to any of them, Isabela steered Amelle to where the dress stood, pinned in place on the dressmaker’s dummy.

“Oh, yes, _please_.  The color would be divine on you.  And you’d fit right in—blue and silver, all the rage this week.”  Isabela ran one hand down the ruched silk skirt.  “Sweet thing, that little waist of yours?  You were made for a skirt like this—oh.”  Gasping, Isabela took some of the fabric between her fingers, fondling it very nearly indecently.  “ _Oh._   Oh, it’s Antivan silk.  Kitten, that’s _Antivan_ silk.”

Scarcely able to conceal her laughter, Amelle said, “I think I heard you the first time.”

“Antivan silk,” she told Amelle, as if she were sharing one of the best kept secrets in all of Thedas—and it’s possible she _was_ — “feels like sex on the skin.  I’m not sure you’re hearing me—you _need_ this dress. Furthermore, you need Broody to _rip this dress off of you_.  And the lace—“  Here Isabela turned and called across the shop to one of the dressmaker’s assistants. “Excuse me, is this lace imported?”

The young woman flushed and smiled, lifting her chin with a proud little tilt.  “No, miss.  That there’s local Highever-made lace.  Handcrafted in this very shop.”

Isabela spun, the length of her dark hair swinging around her face.  “Hawke,” she said, lowering her voice to a fierce whisper, her eyes almost comically wide.  “You _need_ this dress.  Do you know how hard it is to get Highever lace?  _Do you?_ ”

Amelle looked at the dress, then back at Isabela.  She blinked twice, then shook her head slowly, fairly certain the other women in the shop were staring at them by now.  “No?”

“Buy the dress,” she pressed.  “That jacket is sculptured velvet.  You are not going to find a gown like this anywhere else.  Hawke, the bustle alone—”

Crossing her arms, Amelle angled herself to face Isabela.  “I’m buying the dress.”

“Of course you are—wait, what?”  Tilting her head to one side and squinting, Isabela planted her hands on her hips.  “You haven’t argued with me once this whole time,” she said, more than a little accusatorily.

“I haven’t.”

Accusation turned to suspicion.  “Rather unlike you, Hawke, when it comes to splurging on pretty things.”

“Not _terribly_ unlike me,” Amelle argued, her tone sliding towards defensive.  

“Unlike you enough, what’s—“  Isabela turned and looked at the blue dress again, running one finger over its flocked velvet coat.  “Oh.  _Oh._   I understand.”  She fingered the silk again, this time thoughtfully.  “Yes.  Yes, think this will do brilliantly, sweet thing.  Oh, but you’ll need shoes, too.  And gloves—oh, you’ll definitely need gloves for that—and a _hat_.  That dress wants a hat and—“

 _“Isabela._ ”

_“What?”_

“I’m fairly certain I know how to dress myself properly.”  Sighing a little, she looked up at the gown.  “I think this is going to cost more than every single stitch I own put together.”

“What a good thing, then,” Isabela purred into her ear, her voice low, “our good, good friends from the Imperium are bankrolling this little shopping spree.  After all the trouble they put us through the other day, the least they could do is spring for a new dress for you.”  She cast a speculative look around the shop.  “And for me, too.”

#

Amelle stared at herself in the mirror as the head seamstress, flanked by a pair of assistants, all hovered with pins, making adjustments to the fit.

“There’s not much to take in,” one of her assistants remarked.

“How much is ‘not much’“ drawled Isabela from where she leaned against a wall, arms crossed beneath her breasts.

The seamstress, a meticulous-looking woman with white-blond hair twisted up in a chignon, arched a pale eyebrow at Isabela.  Amelle could tell why she had Isabela’s respect from the start; this shop was the woman’s ship and it was more than obvious she ran a tight one.

“You’re asking me how long a wait it’ll be before it’s done,” the woman said, grey eyes watching Isabela shrewdly.

“I am,” drawled Isabela.

“Workmanship like this can’t be rushed.”

“No one’s saying we need a rush job.  We just need to know when it can be done.”

The seamstress stood, crossing her arms.  She was tall and willowy, nearly half a head taller than Isabela, and a full head taller than Amelle.  But there was steel in her voice.  Hard, uncompromising steel.  “Do you know how many rush orders I have waiting in back?  They all ‘need’ to be ready for the nameday fete.”

“Which is when, exactly?”

The seamstress looked at Isabela as if she were daft. It was a nice change; usually ‘Bela was the one giving that look.  But Isabela remained impassive, her expression never budging. Amelle knew that face well. It was one she often saw on the other side of a card table, usually before losing with near embarrassing swiftness.  “Tomorrow night.”

“You already said there wasn’t much work to be done on the dress.  What, exactly, needs to be done?”

“The neckline hangs too low, for one thing—“

“No such animal. Next?”

The seamstress sighed.  “The neckline hangs too low; if we leave it, it’ll throw off the entire silhouette.  Beyond that, it needs to be taken in at the waist.  More than this, if she’s to wear a corset.”

Isabela gave Amelle a speculative look, her eyes lingering about Amelle’s waistline.  “She hardly needs it.”

“True enough, but you have to admit,” the other woman said, folding her arms and rocking back on her heels, taking a hard look at Amelle’s waist.  “With the cut of that jacket, and the bustle…”

Isabela’s hand rested on said bustle.  “Mm.  Yes. You’re right; I do see it.  A little cinched in waist would make a world of difference.”

“Isabela—“ Amelle began to protest.  But Isabela held up a hand, silencing her.

“What is your name, sweet thing?”

The seamstress straightened a little, but there was a flush at her cheeks, and a smile playing about her lips she was trying dearly to keep in check.  “Annabel.”

“Ooh, I like that.  Listen, Annabel,” Isabela purred, while Amelle fought the urge to cover her eyes.  “I can tell you’re a woman who can see right through the bullshit.”

The hard, uncompromising, steel-in-her-voice Annabel flushed more deeply.  “Thank you.”

“So take it from a professional bullshitter—“

“I beg your par—“

Isabela interrupted her smoothly, and with a smile.  Annabel appeared to particularly appreciate the smile.  “Which means, kitten, I’m not going to try and snow you.  We need that dress by the day after tomorrow.  And we’ll pay.  Handsomely.”

“Day _after_ tomorrow?”

“And we’ll pay.”

“I heard that part.  How exactly would you define _handsomely_.”

Isabela laughed, a low, husky chuckle.  “I think you’d like my standard.  You should see the man she’s trying to get into her drawers—he’s my new standard.  And quite a handsome one.”

At this Amelle flushed deeply, deeply red, heat that traveled from the base of her spine up to the crown of her head. She lifted both hands to cover the too-low neckline and leveled an entirely ineffective glare at Isabela, and Amelle knew it had been ineffective, because her friend—her _so-called_ friend, anyway—met her glare with an unrepentant smile, and _laughed._

Annabel, favoring a blush of her own, turned, smiling, to Isabela.  When she spoke, the uncompromising steel was gone, and in its place was something decidedly more… speculative.  “I don’t think it’ll be a problem having this ready day after tomorrow.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” replied Isabela, who then, clasping her hands behind her back, turned to look at what seemed at the moment to be countless dresses crammed into the little shop.  “You do a lot of ready-to-wear here?”

Annabel shrugged as she checked Amelle’s measurements one more time and instructed her assistants to get Amelle into a corset for a proper fitting.  “Not especially.  This being the festival week, we do up some pieces that are mostly constructed.  A small few are ready-to-wear.  It never fails—we’ll get people come into town and either haven’t brought the right dress, or want something special that was made local.”  She shot Amelle a perplexed look.  “Can’t say as I get many people looking for frocks for _after_ the fete.”

“There’s another event we’ve got to prepare for,” Amelle replied smoothly.

“But that said, we _haven’t_ brought proper attire for any sort of party,” Isabela said, somewhat pointedly.

Amelle fought to keep from rolling her eyes, with mixed results.  “Isabela, you brought more than enough gowns, gloves, and Maker-forsaken _hats_ for both of us.”

“Don’t you dare blaspheme against hats, Amelle Hawke,” Isabela retorted. Her amber eyes narrowed and one eyebrow arched dangerously as she said, her tone brooking no argument, “Now go get corseted.  I want to see a proper bosom when you come out of that dressing area.”

As it happened, Amelle’s bosom was indeed _proper_ with the application of a corset and three women to help her lace it up.  A better word for it might have been _prominent._

The dress, despite the alterations it still so obviously needed, despite the many pins glittering along the seams, looked entirely different now, and as the seamstress made adjustments for fit, Amelle marveled at her reflection.  She looked nothing at all like herself.  Despite the discomfort of the more… restrictive undergarments, she couldn’t help but admit the hundreds of tiny changes it made.

“Well, aren’t you just _springing_ out all over?” Isabela asked, making a show of leering at Amelle.

 _A hundred tiny changes, and two sizable ones,_ she thought dryly, looking again at her reflection.  The dress was no less perfect, however.  She had a feeling Varric would approve.  She did not spare any thought on whether Fenris would approve, however—she was quite pink enough already, and through no extra effort of her own.

“Oh, _Hawke,_ ” came Isabela’s voice from the far end of the shop.  “Oh, you must look at this one.”

“I’m sure it’s fabulous, Isabela,” Amelle called back, “but I’m somewhat indisposed right now.”

“You hold still; I’ll bring it to you.”

Amelle didn’t ask how Isabela planned to get a gown off a dressmaker’s dummy—she didn’t have time.  In bare seconds Isabela swept into Amelle’s limited line of sight, holding another dress aloft.

No, Amelle realized, staring at the peridot jacquard Isabela cradled like newly-discovered buried treasure—it wasn’t a dress; it was a _gown._ The green material was embroidered with long, leafy vines on either side of where the skirt split to reveal a peek of black underskirt embroidered with gold thread, with a third skirt beneath that one, gold jacquard and embroidered even more lushly than the topmost layer.  A narrow waist  flared up to an wide, organza-adorned, shoulder-baring neckline.

“We’re buying this,” Isabela announced.

“What?”

“I didn’t stutter.  We’re buying this and you’re wearing it.”

“Isa _bela._ I’m getting fitted for a gown right now.”

“You need one for work,” she said, nodding at the pin-studded gown Amelle currently wore.  “And one for _play._ ”  To emphasize her point, Isabela twirled in a pirouette, letting the pale green material swing out around her.  “I think it’ll be just divine for the nameday fete.”

“Two gowns?” Amelle asked, shaking her head even as Isabela nodded.

“Two,” Isabela said.  “And don’t you _dare_ be a wet blanket about it.  I was looking for something for _myself_ and then I found _this_ and I clearly have lost my mind if I’m even considering letting you have it, but this green would look positively amazing on you, and, let’s be honest here, would be the most amazing accessory to your oh, so dashing beau.”

Color flared up to Amelle’s cheeks.  “Fenris is _not_ my beau, dashing or otherwise.”

“Right,” Isabela said, letting the word stretch out to three times its natural length.  “Are you not catching how perfect this dress is?  I just used amazing _twice,_ that’s how amazing it is.”

“Yes, and it probably needs to be altered, and as we’ve already discussed at length, alterations the day before Elinora Cousland’s nameday fete are—“

“Actually,” Annabel said, pulling several pins out from between her lips and eyeing the peridot gown thoughtfully.  “You might be all right in that one.”

Amelle blinked.  “I beg your pardon?”

“That one ought to fit you.”

“With or without the corset?” Isabela asked, casting a scrutinizing eye on the gown, and then on Amelle.  “Because I think she needs a bosom for this gown.”

“You think everyone needs a bosom, always,” retorted Amelle.

“Well, they are _so_ very useful.  Which you’d know if you showed yours off once in a while.  Anyway, once we get you out of that one,” said Isabela, planting one hand on her hip and indicating the cascade of flowing peridot fabric she held, “you’re trying on this one.”

“And then?” 

“And then I’m damned well finding something for _myself._ Too many good deeds in one day make me itchy.”

It couldn’t have been _hours_ later, certainly, though it felt like it by the time Amelle and Isabela exited the shop, Amelle feeling vaguely like a prisoner stepping into the sun after too many months in a cell.  It wasn’t that she disliked shopping—not in the least; Amelle had a hearty appreciation for pretty things, and Highever definitely had its fair share of those.  But shopping with Isabela was not the sort of event one went into lightly.  Had she been given time to prepare for the endeavor, though, there was the narrowest chance she’d have been able to talk Isabela out of talking her into buying the peridot gown.  

And that, Amelle was now convinced, would have been a tragedy.

They meandered along the row of shops, pausing to admire the confections on display in the front window of a bakery from which there issued a particularly intoxicating aroma.  Tiny pies were arranged in a circle under glass, their perfectly golden crusts enough to make Amelle’s mouth water.  Fairy cakes were iced and decorated, not only with the Cousland laurels, but still others bore a remarkable icing replica of a fierce griffon, the emblem of the Grey Wardens.  Amelle looked up to find a tiny, fond, yet secretive smile playing about Isabela’s lips.

“Copper for your thoughts?”

“Oh, they’re worth so much more than that, kitten,” she replied in a teasing murmur, still smiling that secret smile as she turned on her heel and led the way down the crowded promenade.  Every shop it seemed was decked out in blue and silver, many of them offering goods in similar colors, often featuring some representation of the Cousland crest.  Amelle saw laurel-embossed saddlebags, engraved flasks, etched glass, and in the front window of a haberdashery there hung a rich blue vest flecked with a laurel brocade.

“They do go all in for this party, don’t they?” murmured Amelle.

“Even I’ll admit it’s a little over the top,” Isabela agreed.  “But look at _that_.”

“That” was a blood-red silk brocade— _not_ in a laurel pattern, thank the Maker—waistcoat with silver buttons, exquisitely crafted.  The silk gleamed in the afternoon light and Amelle’s fingers twitched with longing to touch it.

“Buy it,” Isabela said suddenly.

“What?” exclaimed Amelle.  “Why?  What are you talking about?  What could I possibly do with a waistcoat?”

“Not for you, you ninny,” she replied with excruciating patience, such that Amelle felt stupid for asking.  “For Broody.”

Amelle looked again at the garment.  It took no effort at all to picture such a flash of red beneath Fenris’ black coat.  She swallowed hard, then gave herself a shake.  “Don’t be an idiot,” she said, frowning into the window.  “I can’t buy him that.”

Isabela’s reaction was nothing short of unmitigated shock.  “That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard.  Why not?”

“For one thing, it’s entirely inappropriate.  Clothing’s too… intimate a gift.”  Besides, you had to know things like someone’s _size_ when you bought them clothing.  And she didn’t.

Suddenly, powerfully, the memory of Amelle’s arms wrapped around Fenris pulsed through her mind, his warm back pressed against her cold, shivering front as they plodded through the rain and away from certain death.  The memory of her hands at his shoulders as he clutched at her, his kiss enough to make her head spin.  Still.  

She knew too well how her arms fit around him, and how he felt so encircled.

“Kitten,” Isabela said, breaking into Amelle’s thoughts. “You haven’t been paying attention to me at all if you think a waistcoat is an inappropriate gift.”

“For another,” Amelle went on, pausing to clear her throat, “I haven’t got his measurements.  And for _another,_ Fenris would never accept such a thing.  It’s too… too…”

“The word you’re looking for is _perfect,”_ Isabela finished for her, looking pointedly at the vest.  “Nothing says _thank you from saving me from a watery death_ like red silk brocade.” 

#

“I get it, elf.  You’ve got concerns.”

Fenris paused long enough to send Varric an exasperated glare.  But as busy as Highever’s main thoroughfare was, however, this resulted in several people jostling his shoulder, receiving an extra portion of said glare for their trouble.  “Do you not think they are justified?”

“I think you’re new to this whole thing we’re doing,” Varric replied, maneuvering the crowded through-street with surprising ease.  “I think the fact you’re nervous—“

“I am not _nervous,_ I am—“

Varric waved a gloved hand.  “Concerned. Right.  Either way, I understand.”

With a sigh, Fenris took several more cramped strides, trying to put his thoughts in order, avoid bodily collisions, and keep an eye out for Hawke or Isabela.  “Hawke trusts you.”

Varric snorted.  “Sounds like she and I are going to have to have another talk about that.”

“And I,” Fenris interjected, “trust Hawke.”

The dwarf shot him a long, shrewd look.  “But you have trouble trusting _me._ ”

“Just so.”

After a moment, Varric’s shoulders lifted in a shrug.  “Fair enough.  I mean, it wasn’t me what pulled your hide from the brink of death.  So I’m guessing your point is, you’re wanting to make sure Hawke’s trust in me isn’t… misplaced.” At Fenris’ nod, Varric pursed his lips in apparent thought.

“It is… not my intent to offend,” Fenris said, as Varric’s silence stretched out, turning the surrounding ambient noise even louder, separating the thrum into high notes of children’s happy screams, neighbors calling to neighbors, and vendors and shopkeepers shouting above the din as they vied for the attention of potential patrons.

“You know, believe it or not, elf…” Varric looked up at him.  “I really do believe that.”  Another beat of silence passed.  “Hawke’s my friend.  Been my friend for a while now.  She’s good people, and even if she doesn’t see it, I’ve been around long enough and around to enough places to know she’s the real deal—she _is_ that decent.  If I didn’t think we could pull this off, I wouldn’t be suggesting it.  And that’s not to say we don’t need to be careful—or prepared.  Just the opposite.  There’s nothing you can’t tell me that I haven’t already thought about— _including_ the Archon’s reaction once he figures out just how much money and men he’s out.”

Fenris nodded.  “I confess I am…reassured you are taking that seriously.”

“Seriously as I can take anything, Broody.  We don’t get where we are by being stupid.  That said,” Varric went on, “I also know this sort of thing isn’t for everybody.  You don’t want to be a part of it, nobody’s going to force you.”

Fenris’ smile was a blend of grim amusement and wry resignation.  “We’ve few enough people as it is.  I know my role, dwarf.”  He knew his role well, in fact—that was the one part of this piece of theatre Fenris _wasn’t_ worried about.

“And I made it a non-speaking part, too.  Figured you’d appreciate that.”  He grinned at Fenris’ low chuckle.  “Now all we need’s a decent wardrobe change, in case Isabela hasn’t brought back anything useful.”   

“Has she not returned?”

“She probably has,” Varric replied with an easy shrug, “but this is Highever, don’t forget.  And one things Isabela loves more than money is shopping.”  

Fenris remembered the wealth they’d uncovered on the riders.  “With… other people’s money, I suppose,” he said.  At his words, Varric snorted a laugh.

“All the better if it’s not her own money, yeah.” With that, Varric stepped nimbly to the left, easing his way through a space between two people that hadn’t been there before.  So focused was Fenris on following the back of Varric’s head through the crowd that he gave a start at the sudden, familiar voice.

“Well, _what_ do we have here?”

As Fenris lifted his gaze, the crowd parted just enough for him to catch sight of Isabela and Hawke standing outside a haberdashery.  Hawke’s cheeks were unusually pink, her expression forced to blandness, but still appearing discomfited for all that.  He wondered, briefly, what Isabela must have said, for she was smiling too broadly—and far too guilelessly—for Fenris to believe otherwise.

“Told you she’d be back by now,” Varric said to Fenris.  He looked back at Isabela.  “Getting the lay of the land, so to speak.  Looking for supplies.  You?”

“Same,” Isabela replied, shifting a brown-wrapped package under her arm.  “It’s been harder than a randy Antivan to find anything that’s not covered in blue and silver, but I think we’re managing all right so far.”  She tipped her head at the haberdashery.  “The owner’s got more green material than he knows what to do with.  Something about his buyer out of Orlais—I’m not sure of the details, exactly.”  She shrugged. “It was boring, so I stopped listening.  But he has what we most definitely need, and of course everybody’s buying up anything and everything blue right now, while the poor sod’s up to his eyeballs in green.”

“Which is Isabela’s way of saying we were able to get some on the cheap,” Hawke supplied.  

Her blush had faded somewhat, but it was still strange, the way her fingers had twisted into her wrap, and how… restless, how ill at ease she appeared.  Something, though he had no idea what, had left her surprisingly troubled.  Fenris stole a quick look up and down the street—if there were templars, however, he couldn’t see them.  Highever didn’t have much of a reputation one way or the other regarding templar presence, but one assumed, given the town’s overall… _tone_ that mages were as welcome here as they were anywhere else in Ferelden.

“And let me tell you,” Isabela went on, tapping her wrapped package, “we’re going to be needing plenty of green.”

Varric frowned, tipping his head to the side.  “I take it you weren’t able to scavenge much this morning.”

“Oh, I scavenged plenty.”  Then, leaning in close and lowering her voice, she said, “But bloodstained, lightning-scorched, and bolt-ridden material isn’t going to be salvaged, no matter how badly we wish it.  So I recommend you go in for a little visit with the tailor, and then come meet us back in my room so I can show you just what kind of lovely treasures I found.”

“Treasures in your boudoir, Isabela?” drawled Varric, his grin going crooked.  “I think I might’ve heard that one before.”

“I think you might’ve _written_ that one before,” Hawke remarked.


	22. Chapter 22

Though Isabela had been in Highever for even less time than Amelle, her hotel bedroom was already tangle of dirty riding clothes, mud-crusted saddlebags, and clean dresses, complete with lacy, impractical, and impossible underthings strewn across the dresser’s surface.  After scant hours, the room looked like a hurricane had hit it, and yet… something about that surprised Amelle not in the least.  She arched an eyebrow at Isabela as they walked into the room, the door closing solidly behind them.

Reading Amelle’s incredulity loud and clear, Isabela arched an eyebrow right back at her, tossing her wrapped package carelessly at the foot of her bed.  “What?”

“Really, Isabela?” Amelle cast about the room, sending a particularly pointed look at the underclothes hanging flirtatiously from the dresser.  “You only just got here.”

“And?”  A second of silence ticked by.  Then several more.  Finally, with a great huff, Isabela rolled her eyes.  “Oh, _fine_ ,” she grumbled, sweeping the lacy items into a drawer and kicking the dirt-stained clothes into something resembling a pile.  “Better?”

“Ever so much.”

“I don’t see why exactly I should be trying to impress anyone with my housekeeping skills,” she groused. “We’ve all been sharing camp for _days_ now.  I say if the opportunity arises to let my hair down a bit—” with a flounce Isabela dropped on the bed so hard the springs squealed, “I think I’ve earned the right to let it down.”

“I hadn’t realized you ever _didn’t_ have your hair down.”

“ _Metaphors_ , Hawke.”

“Oh, believe me, I was speaking in metaphor, ‘Bela.”

Amelle turned away, then, rubbing at the back of her neck and pacing the length of the room.  Really, Isabela wasn’t… wrong.  There’d been more than a few nights spent in close quarters, Kinloch Hold notwithstanding.  It was a little silly, expecting Isabela to put on pretenses of neatness _now._ Amelle stopped in front of the window overlooking Highever’s main street, appropriately named Main Street, and let out a deep breath before taking another circuit around the small room.

“You know, you aren’t usually this… uptight,” Isabela remarked, eyes narrowing as she watched Amelle pace.  “I mean, I expected it in the dress shop, but… well, give me enough time and I’ll beat that practical streak right out of you. You know I can do it, too.  This, though…”  She trailed off, thoughtfully.  “You’re wound tight, kitten.  Hiding it well, I’ll be the first to give you credit for that, but this is me we’re talking about.  I’ll see through damn near every screen you throw up.”

Amelle shot her a doubtful look.  “You think so?”

“I do,” she replied, sitting up, bracing her arms behind her as she crossed her legs.  In fact, I think you’re even now drawing breath to tell me the problem isn’t Broody and you absolutely don’t need a good roll in the hay to cure what ails you—because you’re so sure that’s what I’m going to say is your problem.  But it isn’t.”

Amelle gave a little start, then _stared._

“And while you’ll never convince me otherwise that bedding that elf wouldn’t do you—and him—a world of good,” Isabela went on, “I also know that’s not the root of your worry.  Neither is it,” she added, nudging the bulging saddlebags with the toe of her boot, “this little game we’re about to play.”

Rocking back on her heels, Amelle crossed her arms over her chest.  “So, you think I’m _not_ worried about pulling one over on the Archon of the Tevinter Imperium?”

“Oh, I think it’s on your mind, but that’s not what’s making you so… tense.”

Amelle let Isabela’s words dangle in the silence for a moment, considering them from all angles before saying, with a shrug, “All right, I’ll bite.”

Isabela waggled her eyebrows at Amelle, affecting a leer.  “Mmm, this little meeting’s more interesting already.”

But Amelle didn’t rise to the verbal bait.  “Tell me what you think it is,” she countered, more patiently than she felt.

Looking at her for a long moment, Isabela gave a little shrug and said, “You’re closer to your baby brother than you’ve been since he left, and you know we’ve come this far, and we can’t turn back now, or at least you _think_ we can’t turn back now—but let me tell you, sweet thing, there’s always time to tuck tail and run—and you don’t know what to do with yourself.  I’d wager part of you is looking forward to this little… diversion we’re cooking up, because it’s something you can focus on that isn’t Kirkwall and isn’t Carver.  It’s another day you don’t have to wonder how you’re going to find your brother and what you’re going to say to him when you do.  It’s one last little bit of… naughtiness before you get back in the saddle and head off to be the good daughter again.”

Amelle could do little else but stare.  “When in all the Void did you become so damned insightful?” she asked once she recovered her voice.

This time the surprise belonged to Isabela.  “You mean I’m right?”

Letting out an indelicate snort, Amelle crossed her arms and glared at her friend.  “Oh, don’t pretend like you didn’t already know you’re right.”

Surprise melted into an unrepentant grin.  “Don’t let it get out, okay?”

“On my word I’ll take it to the grave.”

A sharp knock rattled the door in its frame, shattering the relative peace; Varric’s voice came from the other side of the wood.  “Open up, Rivaini.”

“Open it yourself, Fuzzy,” Isabela called back. “I’ve done enough today.”

Varric and Fenris came into the room, the latter taking care to shut the door quietly behind them.  Varric, however, dropped onto the bed with no ceremony, hard enough that it squealed.  Fenris positioned himself by the window Amelle had been standing by earlier.

“So, what’d you get off the stiffs?” Varric asked.

“You should know better than to ask me a question like that in bed,” came Isabela’s mild retort. But she stood, taking a moment to groan and stretch before stooping to pick up the bulging saddlebag, the leather streaked with mud and clay.  “But to answer your question, I found all sorts of interesting things,” she drawled.  “I found a lot more once I was able to take the time to loot properly.”

Varric gave a low chortle.  “Well, you know what they say—never rush an artist at work.”

“No matter how… questionable the medium,” Fenris added.

“Goes without saying,” Varric agreed.  “So?  Don’t leave us in suspense.  What’d you find?”

With a grin, Isabela poured the saddlebag’s contents across the coverlet.  Gold glittered—watches on long chains, strange medallions and pendants, rings, a comb and hairbrush inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and countless other trinkets all cascaded out, followed lastly by an unwieldy item wrapped incongruously in plaid cloth, tumbling out and landing with a clumsy, heavy bounce.  

But before Amelle could ask, Isabela flashed a grin and plucked up the little mystery, bouncing it gently in her palm.  Though it looked to be roughly the size of a man’s fist, it had obvious heft to it.  “Anyone care to make a wager?”

“You want to take bets?” blurted Amelle.  Of _course_ Isabela wanted to take bets.  

“Only to keep things interesting,” she sniffed.

Fenris shot Isabela a dark look.  “I hardly think we’ve been wanting for excitement as of late.”  

Amelle couldn’t help but agree with that sentiment; all things considered, she could do with maybe just a little less excitement. Or, if nothing else, the sort of excitement they brought upon themselves. Isabela hadn’t been entirely wrong on that account.

“Elf’s got a point, Rivaini,” Varric said with a shrug.  “Considering you got the whatever-it-is off the bodies of Imperium agents who’d been trying to kill us at the time.”

“Fair enough, I suppose,” Isabela relented, sighing.  Then, grasping one end of the cloth in which the item was wrapped, she let it fall to the bed, unraveling and revealing itself as it went.  What landed with a solid bounce drew Amelle several steps closer, eyes going impossibly wide.

“Is that… is that what I think it is?” she asked, picking up the lavishly enameled handle and turning it over in her hands.  It was heavier than it looked, which was saying something, since it looked plenty heavy already.

“That depends.” Isabela replied with a grin.  “Do you think it’s a genuine, official chantry seal?  Because if you do, that’s exactly what you think it is.”

“And you’re certain it’s…” Fenris tipped his head, moving closer to Amelle, staring hard at the seal.  “It isn’t from an Imperial chantry?”

“Good question,” Amelle remarked, sending Fenris a quick, sidelong glance.  “You sure it’s legal?”  Lifting it up to the light, she peered hard at the imprint on the base of the seal, examined it from every possible angle.  Brass accents caught the light, glinting like amber starbursts with every turn.  There was no way—no way this could be… even remotely possible.  An official chantry seal, _in her hands._   And it hadn’t burst into flame or anything.  Mildly disappointing, that.

 _I guess I’m not as much of an anathema as I thought I was,_ she thought dryly, then turned an expectant look Isabela’s way.

“It’s real, kitten.  And,” she added, looking over to Fenris, “not Imperium-made.”

Fenris frowned again at the seal.  “How can you tell?”

“There’s an Orlesian maker’s mark imprinted into the brass around the base,” answered Isabela with a languid stretch.  “Anything out of Orlais has one.  Orlesian crafters have incredibly high opinions of themselves.”  

Amelle squinted at the brass, turning the seal in her hand until she found an intricate little squiggle.  “That little thing?” 

“Yes, Hawke,” Isabela replied on a chuckle.  “That little thing.  Andraste’s tits, don’t tell me you need a lecture on the relative importance of size at this late date.”

Before Amelle could provide any reply beyond a blush and an indignant stammer, Varric broke in with ease.  “Well, now we know how the Tevinters were going to push the faked documents through.”  Holding out one broad hand, Varric wiggled his fingers until Amelle handed the seal over to him.  He paid it the same attention she had, though with far less wonder—as if Varric made a habit of handling items exceptionally hard-to-obtain and dangerously illegal if found in the hands of anyone not authorized to be holding it in the first place.

Then again, this was Varric.  

“It’s the real thing all right,” he muttered with a little shake of his head.  “Maker’s mark and everything.”

With a huff, Isabela shot him an exasperated look.  “Didn’t I already tell you that?”

“Nobody’s casting aspersions on your ability to spot a fake, Ravaini,” he soothed. “But let’s be honest here—you don’t exactly spend a lot of free time inside the chantry.  _Any_ chantry.”

“And you do?”

He gave an evasive shrug.  “I know people.”

“Are we not at all concerned with how agents of the Imperium laid hands upon such a thing?” Fenris asked suddenly, crossing his arms, holding them tight against his chest.  The sudden tension in his stance made Amelle blink; it coiled across his shoulders, up his neck and down his spine.  His expression gave little away—the same taciturn look he often wore—but his body language practically delivered a monologue.

The traitorous thought curled up like smoke: _And just when did you get to be such an expert in Fenris’ body language?_  

“That’s… actually an excellent question,” Amelle said, shoving the errant thought aside as she sent Fenris a glance.  “Because either they stole it, or it was given to them.  And if it was given to them, we probably ought to be concerned with who’d do such a thing.”

“Everybody’s got a price,” Isabela replied with a shrug.  “Even stuffy chantry types.”

“Not when the chantry controls the lyrium trade,” Varric said thoughtfully.  “I think by virtue of the fact that the seal was wrapped up in someone’s dirty laundry is probably a pretty good indicator it was stolen.”

“Which, let’s be honest, was likely going to be _our_ next step,” Isabela chimed in.  “Something I am, for the record, positively heartbroken over.  Have any of you got any idea how long it’s been since I’ve been able to steal anything _fun_?”

“Amaranthine,” Amelle and Varric said as one.

A fond smile curled across Isabela’s lips.  “Oh, that’s _right_.  Good times.  _Good times._ ”

#

With the discovery of the chantry seal, several more details of Varric’s plan fell into place.  For the most part, these developments assuaged Fenris’ lingering concerns, but the appearance of the seal at all awoke a new worry.

Likely as it was the seal had simply been stolen, Fenris knew too well how the Imperium operated—through bribes and blackmail and machinations.  In his estimation, the likelihood the seal had been stolen rivaled the possibility it had been procured through other means. But, as well he also knew, the chantry existed an entity the scope and size of which were almost beyond his imagining.  They could only be certain the seal had been made in Orlais—a country as fond of covert political maneuvering as any.

Varric took possession of the seal and they dispersed—Varric had a few matters to attend to in town and Isabela wished to resume her window-shopping.

“Care to join me?” she asked Hawke, who lingered by the window, staring out at Highever.

“I don’t think so,” came Hawke’s reply as she wrinkled her nose and gave a brief shake of her head.  “I’ve done enough damage for one day.”

That sounded… ominous.  He looked more closely at Hawke, and though she appeared distracted, even troubled, she seemed none the worse for wear.

With a shrug, Isabela moved to the door, holding it open.  “Suit yourself.  What about you, Broody?”

“What about me?” he asked, taking no pains to hide his suspicion as they all moved to the hallway.

“Care to explore Highever’s nooks and crannies with me?” she asked, shooting him a grin that did even more for the double entendre than her tone had.

In truth, Fenris had been considering exploring Highever; he’d never been to the city—that he knew of, anyway—but he’d thought to do it alone—

No, that wasn’t entirely true, either.

“I have other matters to see to,” he replied.  

Shrugging one shoulder, Isabela let her door fall shut and locked it.  “You’re only depriving yourself.”

Inclining his head, Fenris murmured, “Somehow, I believe I will persevere.”

Isabela slanted them both a look—too knowing by half—that left Fenris rankled, but she didn’t say another word, choosing instead to saunter to the staircase, offering them both a backwards wave.

“You should’ve gone with her,” Hawke told him, once she was gone.  “Isabela always finds the most interesting places when she goes exploring.”

“Such as men’s haberdasheries?” he asked, quietly surprised at his arch tone, and even more surprised at the sudden color warming Hawke’s cheeks.

“Well, he did have the right fabric,” she said lightly, though her tone came across as somehow… forced.  “We needed green and he provided it.”  Strange, how she avoided his eyes.

“Hawke?”

This time she did meet his eyes.  “Yes?”

“Are you…”  Fenris stopped, biting back the words.  It was none of his concern, and yet…  “Are you—is anything… troubling you?”

She uttered a soft, hollow laugh, which surprised him.  “First Isabela and now you?  Maker, I must have something written all over my face.”

“Forgive me.  It was not my intent to intrude—”

Hawke shook her head and held up a hand, stopping him.  “It’s fine.  Only, I… I don’t think I quite expected us to make it this far.  We’ll be in Kirkwall soon enough, and I still haven’t got the first idea what to say to my brother when I see him.”  Whatever she saw in his expression made her lips pull into a wan smile.  “See?  You forgot why we were headed there too.”

“I had not forgotten,” he protested.  “I was only surprised you had.”

“I think _forgot_ is a bit too generous a term,” she remarked, her smile warming.  “Anyway, as you said—you have matters requiring your attention.  Don’t let me keep you.”  Hawke went still a moment, lips parting as she took a breath to speak, but some near inscrutable kin to uncertainty flashed across her face and she hesitated before finally asking, “See you at dinner?” 

Fenris wasn’t sure those were the words she’d meant to say, but then Hawke reached out in an abortive movement, pulling back at the last moment, and yet not soon enough to keep from brushing the top of his hand.  Her fingertips were warm, pleasantly so, but it was a very clear end to the conversation—and Fenris was disinclined to push his way into a matter Hawke didn’t want to discuss.

“Of course.”

He saw Hawke to her door, and she vanished into her room with a brief backwards glance that left him peculiarly satisfied.  But then the door closed, leaving him standing alone in the dim corridor, with nothing to do but make good on his pretense.

Highever remained as Fenris’ first impressions had led him to believe.  It was, as cities went, on the smaller side, but no less proud of its heritage.  Heritage, however, hung low on Fenris’ list of priorities.  He walked along until the air, already sharp with salt, turned tangy—the port was as busy and bustling as the rest of the city, schooners, brigantines, and smaller crafts docked, their tall masts and broad white sails contrasting sharply against the blue sky, now cloudless, the drenching spring storms having been long blown out to sea.  Some crafts took on passengers and cargo, but more people and things were delivered than were departing, all in preparation for the Cousland nameday fete.

Highever’s port wasn’t quite large enough to accommodate the vast luxury steamships in vogue among the upper class—ships such as those pulled into port at Amaranthine—but those disembarking passengers still looked happy enough to have arrived all the same.

A gust of cool wind came in off the water and as Fenris turned, it pushed at the brim of his hat, of his coat.  He reached up to readjust his hat, nudging the brim down again, and continued his own tour of Highever, learning it, committing it to memory.  This was not, surprisingly, a habit he’d picked up after escaping Danarius; on the contrary, he’d done the same when he’d been his master’s bodyguard.  Danarius possessed his fair share—some would say more than his share—of enemies, and knowing the quickest routes out of a city, and in which directions those roads led, were often Fenris’ first priority upon reaching a new destination.  He’d done then as he did now—walking the streets, noting which thoroughfares were nearest their lodgings, and which offered the most expedient routes away from danger.

Now, though, Fenris had far different reasons for wanting to keep Hawke safe from harm.  They were not easily articulated reasons, but they were most definitely _different._

Several hours later, he returned to the hotel, armed with an intimate knowledge of Highever’s main roads and side streets.  His room was as he left it—the hour was far too early for any of his clothing to have been laundered; normally he’d not have bothered with such a luxury, but almost every stitch he owned carried with it the faintly mildewy stench of the river.  In light of his limited options, Fenris shucked his coat long enough to take up the clothes-brush off the dresser and set to removing the dust and dirt clinging to his coat, trousers, and boots.  As he tidied himself, he turned over the town’s layout in his mind.  

If circumstances required they leave, he would be prepared.

By the time his clothing was mostly free of dirt, Fenris had conceived several potential escape routes.  There were tertiary problems as well—they were meant to board a ship to Kirkwall in a few days, after all, and leaving the city would doubtless complicate those plans—but having such a contingency plan, even one so hastily cobbled together as this, was… if not comforting, then reassuring.  He shrugged into his green waistcoat and wound a black cravat around his neck—items that were still mostly clean, and after a proper airing-out, didn’t smell quite as bad as the rest of his belongings—and took a hard look in the mirror.  

After a long moment, he arched an eyebrow at his reflection.  “You might… _almost_ fool someone into thinking you were something like a gentleman,” he murmured.  Then that arched eyebrow lowered, meeting the other in a dark slash across his forehead before he turned away, scowling at his own absurdity.  

Fenris knew what he was.  What he really was.

He left his room to find Hawke at the end of the hall, standing by the stairway railing, watching people mill about below.  She still wore the yellow dress she’d been wearing earlier, only now with the addition of a sparkling pin in her hair and a yellow ribbon around her neck.  When she turned, however, her face revealed a too-familiar sort of paleness despite her smile; expertly applied cosmetics aside, as he drew nearer to her, the shadows beneath her eyes became more evident.

It made sense, he supposed; Highever was hardly free from templars.  Still, the more frequently she took doses of the magebane tincture, the less he liked it.  Strange, considering he’d once thought this measure to be an incredibly sound, reasonable one.

“You’ve taken more,” he said once he reached her side, taking care to keep his voice down.

She sighed a little, her smile dimming somewhat.  “I have.  I knew it couldn’t last, but I’ll admit I liked… _not_ feeling this in my veins.  But…”  She trailed off with a shrug.

“It is necessary,” he remarked, the words pulled from him, one by one.

“It is,” she agreed.  “Until it isn’t.”

“Will your supply last as long as you require?”

She wrinkled her nose, which said far more than words could.  “Close enough, I suppose.  I’ve had to adjust the dosage some since we left Lothering, but not much.  It should last me through my spell in Kirkwall.”

“Why have you needed to change the amount?”

“Damned if I know,” she answered honestly, lifting her shoulders again.  “I seemed to be coming out of it pretty effortlessly for a while there.  Adrenaline, maybe.  Maybe luck, though whether that’s good luck or bad I can’t quite say.”

Fenris had time only to blink once before comprehension dawned, bringing with it a rush of heat to his face.  Of course.  _Of course_ Hawke questioned her reaction to the tincture.  “…I see.”

Tilting her head, Hawke stepped closer, green eyes sharp, and twice as observant as he wished.  “You… see?”

He swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat.  “Yes.”

Puzzlement slid into concern as she reached up and put a hand to his forehead.  “Fenris, you aren’t looking terribly well right now.”

What could he possibly tell her?  The truth?  He’d provided her with an infusion of lyrium to hasten her recovery and healing?

“Fenris?” Hawke said again, concern etching itself deeper on her features as she let her hand drop.  “What is it?”

He glanced up and down the corridor.  A scant few hotel patrons were making their way to the dining room, and of those few, none appeared to be paying either of them very much mind.

“I know why you… recovered so quickly from the magebane,” he said, keeping his voice low.

“You do?”

Fenris nodded, hunching his shoulders beneath his coat and jamming his fists into his pockets.  “Yes,” he replied curtly after a too-long silence.  

Hawke waited for him to elaborate; when he did not, she lifted her brows inquisitively.  “Well?”

Insofar as Fenris had given this moment any thought at all, he’d always assumed he would reveal the truth to Hawke in his own time, patiently explaining to her the extent of his abilities.  In these scenarios, his explanations had been prettily worded, including as little as possible of his servitude to Danarius and the other ways in which he’d provided lyrium to his master.

Now, though, no words came to him, pretty or otherwise.  He shifted his weight from foot to foot.  “I did it.”

“You?” she breathed, brows knitting in confusion.  “But how—?”

Before she could ask, Fenris held out one hand, palm up.  Lines of lyrium stood out starkly against the darker skin.  Hawke stared at his palm, but before he could snatch it away and clench it into a fist, she ran one questing fingertip across the centermost line.  The light touch sent something buzzing pleasantly across his skin, and he at once resented and savored the sensation. But Hawke’s confusion lasted only a second—two, at most—before her breath caught.  “Oh,” she whispered, eyes going wide with understanding.  “Oh.  Yes.  That would make all the difference in the world, wouldn’t it?”

He looked away, turning his gaze on the stairwell and counting each individual step.  “You… required assistance.”

“And you provided it.”  Ducking around, Hawke placed herself in Fenris’ line of sight, giving him a sharply assessing look.  After several seconds, she saw something that made her narrow her eyes at him.  “You didn’t want to tell me that.”

“Not entirely,” he admitted.

“Whyever not?”

“I thought you would be displeased I had taken such a liberty without notifying you first.”

Surprise creased her features.  “You thought I’d be… displeased?  Fenris, I was half-drowned and had no way of healing myself.  Lyrium potion wasn’t enough, as bad off as I was.  And we couldn’t just camp out in a cave waiting for me to recover on my own.”

“Then you are not—”

“Upset?” she finished for him.  At his nod, Hawke breathed a soft chuckle, and before he could move aside, she’d leaned forward and brushed a brief kiss across his cheek; the buzz beneath his skin returned with a vengeance.  “Quite the contrary,” she said quietly, her breath warm against his ear before she pulled back again.  “I’m grateful.  Thank you.”

That fleeting contact sent a rush of warmth through him, particularly to his face, and he swallowed with effort.  “You do… not consider it a lie?  A lie of omission, at the very least?”

At this, Hawke dipped her head, a gesture that seemed both curious and rueful.  “Ought I to?”

“I should think so.”

“You aren’t an open book, Fenris.  I understand that.  And I… I don’t see where I have any reason to get het up because you didn’t tell me every single and last detail to do with your markings.  Far as I see it, I’m just thankful you’ve let me flip through a few pages.  There’s plenty I don’t know about you, but that goes both ways.  There’re things about me even my best friends don’t know.  Being someone’s—” here Hawke stopped, licking her lips to cover her stammer “—someone’s… friend isn’t—it isn’t about that, the things we _don’t_ tell each other.  It’s… making that choice to share the important things, and being able to choose when to share them.”

Fenris prided himself on being the sort of person who didn’t mince words, who didn’t speak unnecessarily—but Hawke had left him as close to speechless as he could remember being.

Friends.  She used the word so easily.  So effortlessly.  

It was with that same effortless ease that she read his expression.  “You pulled my hide out of a flooding river,” she said, the words spoken so softly he had to inch closer to hear her.  “You proceeded to supply me— _a mage_ —with lyrium out of your own skin to speed my recovery.”

“And you healed my injuries after I attempted to kill you.”

“See?” she said, offering him a bright, dimpled smile as she rested her hand on his forearm.  Slowly, he relaxed under her touch.  “Friends.”

“This, then, is what it means to have one.”

“If you like.”  A moment passed, her smile faltering as she drew her lower lip between her teeth.  “Or…”

“…Or?”

A sudden—and surprising, considering the magebane—rush of color reached her cheeks and Hawke shook her head, reluctantly pulling her hand away.  “N-never mind,” she said quickly, taking in a deep breath and letting it out.  Her smile returned, warm as ever.  “It’s nothing.  Nothing to worry about.  We—probably ought to go downstairs.  Isabela and Varric have probably started without us.”

Approximately halfway down the grand stairway it occurred to Fenris that if Varric and Isabela were already at dinner, then Hawke had been waiting… for _him_.


	23. Chapter 23

Dinner was the hottest, most filling meal any of them had enjoyed since Kinloch Hold—lamb roasted with rosemary and fennel with carrots slathered in herbed butter and for dessert, bread pudding studded with dried fruit and smothered in a warm whiskey sauce.  The fare was such that conversation slowed during the meal, everyone more interested in eating than talking.

In truth, Fenris had never eaten so well as he had since meeting Hawke. Even their meals around the campfire had been pleasant, augmented usually with rum from Isabela’s flask, or some extra, hidden provision Hawke or Varric had picked up along the way.

Perhaps that was the difference between traveling alone and as part of a group.  Even now, despite the lack of color upon Hawke’s cheek, with her meal eaten and a glass of sherry in hand, she still spoke animatedly, still laughed, still joked with Isabela and Varric—and himself.  When Fenris had started on this trip, Varric and Isabela’s tolerance for him had been only that: tolerance.  Now, though, they included him in their jests.  He was… a _part_ of something—a sensation entirely new to him.

Once they were all contentedly full of food, drink, and conversation, they all four walked through the hotel’s lobby and pushed through the double doors out into the moonlit evening.  The air carried with it a salty briskness as it blew in off the sea; Hawke pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, while Isabela turned into the breeze, smiling as she closed her eyes, tipping her head back and drawing in a long, deep breath.

“Only a few more days, Rivaini,” Varric said, “and we’ll be on the open water.”  He had, of course, read her expression with expert precision—but he didn’t sound entirely happy about the voyage himself.  “A few more days followed by an eternity of seasickness.”

“Lucky us,” Hawke said, clapping a hand on Varric’s shoulder.

“Luck,” the dwarf echoed darkly, shaking his head.  “That isn’t what I’d call it.”

Isabela shot them both an exasperated glare.  “Oh, would you both stop your bellyaching?  You’re ruining the moment.”

“ _Bellyaching,_ ” Hawke muttered.  “Nice choice of words.”

“You know what I mean,” Isabela retorted, flicking a hand dismissively.

Fenris realized too late his expression must have revealed his curiosity, for Hawke’s expression turned rueful.  “Seasickness,” she supplied.  “I get wretchedly seasick.  But at least,” she added with a sigh and a pointed look Varric’s way, “I’m not alone.”

Varric’s expression turned pained.  “Could we maybe not talk about the days upon days of misery waiting for us?”

“My apologies,” Hawke replied, sounding appropriately contrite.  “What would you like to do instead?”  Then, sending Fenris a conspirator’s smile, she added under her breath, “As if I need to ask.”

“Figure we’ll find a card game in town,” the dwarf answered, cocking his head in the direction of a saloon down the street.

“What a surprise,” Fenris drawled, his utterance catching the dwarf entirely by surprise.  

“So the broody elf’s got a sarcastic streak.”

“And yet he makes a valid point all the same,” Hawke added.  “It’s been an age since you’ve been able to fleece anyone.”

“Hope that’s not a complaint, Hawke.  It’s these winnings that have been keeping feather pillows under that pretty head of yours.”

“Not at all, not at all, perish the thought.”

“Thinking about joining us, kitten?”

“Thinking about it,” Hawke replied, sending Fenris a sidelong grin.  

Despite all that had transpired since then, he’d not forgotten her suggestion they attempt to play—and win—against Isabela and Varric.  He sent her a querying look of his own as they ambled along the street.

“Not tonight,” she murmured, leaning close enough that her breath stirred his hair.  He suppressed a shiver.  “The most important rule of diamondback is to watch the other players—“

“More than you watch your own cards,” he finished for her. Hawke’s answering smile was warm and broad, and he found being on the receiving end of it—indeed, being its sole recipient—quickened something inside him.

“Exactly that.  So tonight we’ll watch.”

“Do you not play regularly with them?”

“Haven’t in a while, unfortunately.  Not since…” Hawke paused in thought, steps slowing.  “Not since before Ostagar.”  She shrugged, her expression turning momentarily inscrutable.  “Not since before our meeting, at least.”

“Very well.  Allow us to… observe, then.”

“Sensible of you.”

A prickling across his skin urged him to lift his eyes—to find Hawke’s gaze settled on him.

“Yes?” he asked, suddenly wary of the gentle quirk at her lips.

“You were smiling,” she said.  “Mind if I ask why?”

“I was not aware I required a reason.”

Varric and Isabela exchanged a look.  The frequency with which they did had become nearly alarming.

“Good food, good company?” Hawke asked him a low voice as Highever bustled around them.

“That is… accurate,” he replied, offering Hawke his arm.  Surprise rippled across her features, but it was a mild brand of it.  She accepted his arm, resting her own in the crook of his elbow as they walked along the main street, darkness pushed back by flickering gas lamps lining either side of the street.  The city’s activity had lessened somewhat since that morning, but the air still thrummed with anticipation as couples walked along, arm in arm, admiring the newly-hung decorations.  

They found a tavern in short order, as if Varric and Isabela both possessed a sixth sense for locating such establishments.  It was cheerfully loud; at one end of the establishment a cluster of not-quite-drunk patrons had gathered around a man playing a piano, their voices off-key as they sang along with the tinny, plinking notes.  Varric claimed a small table in the corner, pulling a chair out for Isabela with a flourish.  She shot him an unreadable—and yet still obviously amused—look before sitting in a swish of skirts.

Feeling as if some sort of precedent had been set, Fenris reached for a chair to do the same for Hawke, but the warm weight of her hand on his stopped him.  

“Varric’s just showing off,” she murmured, the dimple in her cheek showing itself.

“Even so,” he replied, pulling the chair out anyway. “I am not entirely devoid of manners.”

She sat, still looking distractingly amused.  “I don’t believe I ever implied you were.”

After some friendly bickering over who would shuffle and deal—and whose cards they’d use (not Isabela’s)—it was Varric who handled the deck, cards blurring from one broad hand to the other and then flicking forward as he nimbly dealt them their cards.

As it was a friendly game, bets were low, which gave Fenris an ideal opportunity to pay more attention to the other players than his cards.  After several hands, Fenris came to realize several things, the first of which was that Isabela was a gifted bluffer who showed so many tells it was near impossible to tell which tells were _tells_ and which were diversions—she twirled her hair during good hands and bad; she chewed her lip; she leant forward, putting her cleavage on display, but never with any sort of consistency.  It was a different sort of tactic than ones he’d seen employed by other players, but no less effective for that.  Second was a deeper understanding and appreciation for Varric’s ability to bluff nervelessly, very seldom trading out cards and choosing instead to play whatever he held; it was no surprise this was how they’d been bankrolling themselves. Third was that Hawke watched Fenris nearly as closely as Fenris watched Hawke—closely enough that she made him far too conscious of his own tells, which very likely resulted in him revealing them all the more clearly.  

Which could very well have been the whole point.

They were several hands in, a modest spill of coppers piled the middle of the table, glinting warmly under the saloon’s lanternlight—no one had come out as a clear winner yet, which told Fenris the others were observing him as closely as he had them. He lifted his wineglass and took a long drink; as he set the glass down a flicker of movement caught his eye—Hawke, winding a short lock of hair around one finger.  When she realized what she was doing, she dropped her hand to her lap, shooting the offending limb a disgusted look.

Not only a tell, but one she was aware of.  He wondered what it meant—a good hand, or a bad one?

Before he could give the question much more thought, however, three newcomers had approached their table—two men, one fair-haired, the other dark, and a woman with brown hair pulled back, save for tendrils escaping to curl at her temples.

“I do love a game of diamondback, but I always thought you preferred Wicked Grace, ‘Bela.”  Silver flashed at her breast, beneath her leather coat; her companions wore similar badges—etched, Fenris realized, with a griffon in profile.  Grey Wardens.  Which meant—

Silence reigned around the card table. For that matter, the whole saloon had gone quiet.  Next to Fenris, Hawke blinked, but said nothing.  That was possibly because Elinora Cousland, daughter of Highever, Grey Warden Commander, and the single most powerful woman in Ferelden, wife to the single most powerful man in Ferelden, stood at their card table, smiling at Isabela.

“Isabela,” the woman drawled, bracing one arm across the top of a high-backed chair.  “It’s been a while.”

Across from him, Isabela smiled.  “Long time, no see, sweet thing.”

This time it was Fenris’ turn to start and stare at Isabela.  _Sweet thing?_  

“Isabela,” Hawke managed, faintly, “is there something you haven’t told us?”

“Oh, I’m sure that list is far longer than she’ll ever admit to.  Forgive me my horrible manners.”  The newcomer smiled and extended her hand to Hawke.  Fenris took in the woman’s stance, her body language, but her limbs were loose and her manner easygoing.  Confident, but surprisingly grounded.  “Elinora Cousland, at your service.  Allow me to introduce my colleagues, Nathaniel Howe and—well, everybody just calls Anders _Anders._ I do believe I’ve forgotten his full name, if ever indeed I knew it.”

“She isn’t being serious, of course,” Anders interjected smoothly.  Too smoothly, Fenris thought.  The man’s dark blue suit was perfectly pressed, revealing no signs at all of travel.  A gold hoop winked at his ear.  His hands looked too smooth, the fingernails too clean.

“That all said, I think—if Anders’ reports are to be believed, at any rate—”

“Which is not always the case,” the darker Warden—Howe—added wryly, a sentiment that made it difficult for Fenris to dislike the man.  

Anders took evident offense to Howe’s words, grimacing comically and rolling his eyes before tipping his hat at Hawke and sending her a too-familiar smile that lasted a heartbeat too long for Fenris’ taste.  Hawke’s own smile was polite but… restrained, nowhere as warm or as wide as Fenris had seen in the past.

“Then,” Cousland continued, “I believe you may have already met.”

“Amelle Hawke,” Hawke said, shaking the taller woman’s hand.  “And… yes, I believe that’s a fair assessment.  Our encounter was…” she trailed off, glancing at Isabela and Varric.  “I think it’d be fair to call it, ‘brief but memorable’?”

Varric coughed. “That’s about the long and short of it.”

It was then Fenris recalled there was a sizable Warden outpost in Amaranthine.  The others had referenced some incident there—an incident involving two Grey Wardens—and while Fenris’ curiosity had grown with every mention, he’d never asked what had happened.

“My report, I’ll have you know,” Anders replied, “was entirely mostly accurate.”  He sent a knowing look Hawke’s way, shifting slightly closer to her.   

Hawke ducked her head and laughed, shaking her head.  A hint of color warmed her pale cheeks and Fenris grew less curious about Amaranthine by the second.  Highever, too, began to lose its appeal.

“You must be Varric Tethras,” Elinora Cousland said, relinquishing Hawke’s hand.  “I was quite fond of _The Bard and the Blade,_ you know.  Your reputation precedes you.  It’s a pleasure.”  She turned, then, to address Fenris, confusion flickering briefly across her face.  He sat still, watching the woman’s expression as she struggled to place him; though he wasn’t inclined to like one of her two companions, her cordiality was nothing less than genuine.  Nor did it escape his notice that the woman hadn’t ignored or dismissed him outright simply by virtue of his being an elf.

“This is Fenris,” Hawke supplied, cutting in smoothly and placing a hand upon his shoulder.  “He only recently joined us.”  The light touch pulled his musings away from anything related to Amaranthine—or Anders’ too-familiar smiles—centering them instead on the warmth of her fingers through his shirt.  Her thumb rubbed a small circle over his collarbone; with every circuit the tension in Fenris’ spine and neck slowly released.  Then Hawke spoke again, turning his attention back to the conversation at hand. “He was lucky enough to miss that particular… incident.”

“Incident,” Nathaniel intoned.  “That’s one way of putting it.”

###

Elinora Cousland.  _Elinora Cousland._

Amelle knew it was one thing that she was in Highever—that was only to be expected, given it was her nameday they were celebrating—but it was something altogether different that she was _here,_ standing at their card table and looking like she belonged there.

And Isabela _knew her?_

“So tell us, Isabela, when exactly were you going to mention you knew Elinora Cousland?”

“Our paths crossed a few times,” Isabela said airily.

“Please,” she said, “just Elinora.  I start to break out into hives if people _Cousland_ or _Theirin_ me to death.  In any case, I wasn’t really anybody special at the time, believe me.  It just so happened I… required specific sort of assistance and was directed to request the aid of a… particular pirate who frequented a particular establishment.”

Isabela’s expression turned to one of fond reminiscence.  “Ah, yes. The Pearl.  I miss that place.”

Amelle twisted back in her chair to gape properly at Isabela.  The Pearl?  _The Pearl?_   “You met Elinora Cousland _at The Pearl?_ ”  She slid her eyes to Varric, who looked not in the least bit surprised at this revelation.  But this was Varric, which could have meant he already knew the whole story and then some, or he was only pretending to know and biding his time until he could pull details out of Isabela later.

“I have it on good authority they miss you, too.”  Elinora gestured to a few chairs scattered at empty tables.  “May we?  I’d hate to interrupt.”

Varric waved a hand.  “Nothing but a friendly game is all.  Make yourselves at home.”  He chuckled, gathering the cards up.  “Which probably won’t be too difficult for you, now that I think about it.”

The three Wardens pulled chairs up to the table as the rest of them scooted around to make room, resulting in Fenris’ chair pressing so close to hers their thighs brushed.  Though brief, the contact—such as it was through her layers of skirts—sent something jumping in Amelle’s blood, enough to distract her while also leaving her torn between pulling away and to pressing closer.

“Forgive me,” he murmured.

“No need to apologize,” she replied, her voice suddenly hoarse.  She shifted in her chair.  Their legs brushed again.  Her breath caught.  _Again._

On Amelle’s other side, Isabela waved the barkeep over.  “Another round for us, and whatever our friends are drinking,” she told him before looking back at Elinora.  “I don’t get to Denerim quite as often as I used to.”

Elinora and Howe both ordered whiskey, Anders an ale.  “Put it on my tab,” she added, nodding up at the barkeep before turning her attention back to Isabela.  “I’ve heard as much.”

Looking entirely too satisfied by half, Isabela propped her forearm on the table and smiled.  “Keeping tabs on me, sweet thing?”

“Not exactly,” she replied, her expression reflecting the type of amusement exposure Isabela’s presence and influence tended to cultivate.  “It’s more that you have a knack for making waves wherever you go.”  She paused, grinning at the unintentional joke. “So to speak.  It’s been quiet—in Denerim, at least—so I can only assume you’ve not graced our fair city with your very singular presence in some time.”

“So tell me, did you bring that big, strapping husband of yours along?”  Isabela waggled her eyebrows lasciviously.  “Give any further thought to my generous suggestion?”

“Alas, some last minute business detained him.  Alistair expects to be in on the first train tomorrow. And as to the second question—the answer hasn’t changed.”  Whatever conversation Elinora and Isabela were referring to, the latter settled back in her chair, looking both satisfied and unsurprised.

“I apologize for butting in,” Amelle said. “But if you don’t mind my asking, what sort of assistance was it you required from Isabela?” 

The question made Elinora blink, and then shrug.  “I wanted—more to the point, I believed I needed to learn how to duel.  I was told of a raider who was unsurpassed in the art. I found her—“

“In a brothel, evidently,” Amelle interjected, taking no pains whatsoever to hide her amusement.  The look Fenris shot her was a mix of surprise and curiosity.  She gave him a helpless shrug.  “I’m… not entirely unfamiliar with The Pearl.”  

Elinora laughed, smile widening.  “Yes, in a brothel.  And over course _I’d_ never been in such a place before.”

“Nor had your husband-to-be,” Anders interjected, before shooting Amelle a conspirator’s grin.  _He_ certainly hadn’t changed since the last time she’d seen him or Howe.  Still flirtatious, still charming, and still very much the type of man her mother would have warned her away from, mage or not.  Nathaniel Howe was still very much Anders’ foil—straightforward and direct, with humor that tended towards the sly and subtle.  An interesting pair of companions for the Warden Commander.  “As I understand the tale,” Anders continued, taking no pains to hide his mirth, “the gentleman asked if it was the sort of place that made _broth._ ”

“Never broth,” Isabela tossed back with a wink.  “Though I _do_ recall one patron who could do the most fascinating things with lightning.  They still talk about him.”  

At that comment, Anders squirmed with discomfiture that could have been genuine, but Amelle wasn’t sure—that was another problem with Anders: Amelle had a damnably difficult time reading him.  Not like—well.  Not like some people, anyway.

“Lightning?” he managed around a cough, taking a long pull from his mug.  “Wonders indeed will never cease.”

Beside him, Nathaniel smirked into his drink.  “Indeed not.”

“Rivaini,” Varric drawled, shifting the subject while still managing to sound undeniably wounded, “Words cannot hope to convey my disappointment I am only hearing about this story now.”

“Oh, but if I tell you all the good ones, Fuzzy,” she riposted, “there’ll be nothing left to keep you hanging around.”

“In any event,” Elinora went on, “after a pitiful showing at a game of Wicked Grace, the duelist told me I couldn’t be taught.”

“You had plenty of other skills,” Isabela pointed out, and there was something… lurking in her voice, something teasing and hidden.  “You didn’t need mine.”

Elinora took a sip of whiskey.  “And it turned out you were right.”

“You needn’t sound so surprised.”

She paused, turning the glass this way and that before admitting, “Rendon Howe was a formidable opponent.”

Amelle knew a very little about the man to whom Cousland referred.  Lothering had been dealing with its own problem at the time, and Amelle hadn’t exactly had the time to keep up with events beyond those covered in the local press.  And Lothering’s press had been far more interested in how a farming community would overcome a blight and avoid starving through the winter.  Her eyes went to Nathaniel, whose expression was patently neutral.

“Wait,” she blurted, “Rendon—” 

“Howe,” Nathaniel finished for her.  “He was my father.”

“Our working relationship,” Elinora explained, sending Nathaniel a rueful smile, “did not have the smoothest start.”

Anders gave a snort.  “An understatement if ever there was.  I think everyone at the Keep was waiting for these two to call pistols at dawn and be done with it.”

“Anders exaggerates,” Elinora replied, waving a hand.  “In any event, there’s something I’m rather curious about, Isabela—what brings you all to Highever?”

“What?” Varric asked, his expression as open and honest as Amelle had ever seen it, not that she believed it for a minute.  “Maybe we’re here to enjoy the celebration.”

“If you were hoping to appeal to my ego, Mister Tethras—”

“Varric, please—if we’re going to be on a first-name basis with the Commander of the Grey.”

“Very well.  Varric.  If you were hoping to appeal to my ego, I’m afraid you’ll find yourself disappointed.”

“We’re passing through to Kirkwall,” Amelle offered.  “Our ship doesn’t sail for a few days yet, so we’ve decided to enjoy the festivities.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Elinora replied. “I have it on good authority the festivities are indeed very festive.”  She nudged Anders, her expression arch.  “Rumor has it there may be fireworks.”

“Never put stock in rumors, Elinora,” Anders said, taking another long drink from his mug.

“Evidently he only shows off for the brothels,” Nathaniel added.  

“I’d be more inclined to believe that if he weren’t such a willing show-off every other day of the week,” Elinora countered before casting a look around the table, meeting their eyes one by one.  “I confess I’m a little disappointed.  I’d rather hoped Isabela’s presence in our fair city indicated some level of skullduggery or shenanigans afoot.”

Fenris started and stared.  “You _hoped?_ ”  

Elinora looked over at Fenris, surprised.  “You _do_ speak.  Only when you’ve something to say, I imagine.  I’m sure I don’t know anybody like that.”

“And I’m sure,” Nathaniel said, rather pointedly, “not everybody has a taste for your brand of humor.”

“In any case,” Elinora went on, turning back to Fenris, “yes.  I had hoped something was brewing.  It’s my nameday, after all.  Highever does love its celebrations, but sometimes it all gets…”

“A little too formal?” Isabela suggested.  “Just a little too…predictable?”

A beat of silence passed and Elinora looked at Isabela, her eyes widening.  “You _are_ up to something.”

Isabela didn’t reply; she only took a long drink from her glass, draining it of rum, her eyes sliding over to meet Varric’s.  A thousand unspoken words passed between them, the silent conversation ending only when Varric shrugged and looked at Amelle.

“What do you say, Hawke?”

Amelle’s heart gave a sudden, hard thump in her chest; beside her, Fenris tensed.  She swallowed to fight the sudden dryness overtaking her mouth.  “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”  

“You’ve got to admit, could be useful to have an insider’s perspective.”

As true as Varric’s words were, and as deeply as he trusted his perspective and judgment, Amelle couldn’t help balking.  

“If it’s any reassurance,” Elinora interjected evenly, “I’m reasonably confident Isabela wouldn’t have given anything away if this supposed skullduggery were _very_ illegal.”

“You…” Amelle began, trailing off and shaking her head.  “You’re the head of _the Grey Wardens._ ”

“I am.”  Elinora narrowed her eyes a moment and nodded once to herself.  “Ah, I see.  It’s not that I am an unknown quantity, but rather I am one a little too well known.”

“Given what we’re dealing with, Hawke,” Isabela murmured, “I think this is an ally we might need.”

She considered this.  Fenris had already made clear his misgivings and concerns.  They were on the verge of potentially making an incredibly powerful enemy.  That worried Amelle more than the idea of having lyrium mines put into her name.  She chewed her lip a long moment and looked at Fenris; his expression was impassive and inscrutable.

“All right,” she said finally.  “But I imagine we’d be better off talking somewhere a bit more private.”

Elinora nodded.  “I know just the place.”

###

Cousland House had been on the same piece of property for generations.  Its first iteration had been a simple cabin, hewn together by Mather Cousland’s bare hands; when that had been destroyed in a fire, the Couslands rebuilt to accommodate an ever-growing family.  Much of that family, Amelle knew, was dead, including Fergus Cousland’s wife and young son.  Though the land had recovered in most places, and was still recovering in others, some scars would remain forever.

The pristine clapboard house stood just on the edge of town, surrounded by pines and encircled by a tall wrought-iron fence.  A light flickered in one of the second story windows.

“That will be Fergus, waiting up,” Elinora told them as the horse-drawn cab trundled its way up the gravel-lined drive.  Concern tightened briefly at the corners of her mouth before she shook it off and hopped out the very moment the horses came to a stop.  “I’ll show you to the library, if you’ll excuse me a moment to say goodnight,” she said, unlocking and pushing open the heavy front door.  “Then we’ll have all the privacy we need.”

Inside, the house was sparely lit—only enough that anyone coming in had light by which to avoid killing themselves.  But the low-light did nothing whatsoever to conceal the high ceilings and polished wood floors or the plush furniture made of carved wood and soft cushions.  Fresh flowers stood in delicate vases propped on tall, ornate tables beneath family portraits hung on the walls.

The room Elinora led them to was comfortably furnished, the shining floor covered with a thick, colorful rug woven in hues of blue and grey.  Against one wall was a table that held several cut-crystal bottles of liquor.  Isabela made a beeline to that end of the room and began investigating, pulling the stoppers out of each bottle and sniffing experimentally.  Faced with walls upon walls of books, Varric began perusing the shelves—more than likely looking for his own name—while Nathaniel took a seat and Anders set about to starting a fire in the hearth.  Once she was satisfied they were settled, Elinora excused herself, closing the doors behind her.  At the soft click, Amelle went to one of the tall windows and looked out; it was too dark to see much of anything but the moon and her own reflection.

Her reflection and Fenris’.  

“Tell me, do you trust this woman?” he asked, his voice low.

She pulled her attention from the tenor of his voice, which never failed to send a shiver across her skin, and shifted it towards the words he was saying.  He had a point, and it was no surprise at all he was sharing whatever thoughts he harbored.  

“It’s never a bad thing to have an ally in your back pocket,” she replied, just as softly.

“You are so certain she will be an ally.”

That was the real question, wasn’t it?  Amelle looked at Fenris from the corner of her eye.  “You’re concerned with the part of the plan that leaves me owning the mines.”

A twitch at his lips was the closest thing to a smile she could hope for, given the circumstances.  “It is the only part of what we are doing that is truly questionable.”

Isabela appeared between them, a crystal tumbler in either hand.  “If you two are going to stare out at the scenery together, you’re going to need a drink,” she said, pressing the glasses into their hands.

“It’s too dark to see much of anything,” Fenris countered.

“So you’re off in a dark corner together _not_ looking at the scenery?”  She shrugged and turned to go.  “Can’t say I don’t approve of that.”  

Amelle put her hand out, catching her friend’s arm.  “…Isabela?”

“Oh, kitten, this had better be fast.  I put my drink down to come see you.”  But she moved closer when Amelle tugged.

“Are you sure this is wise?” Amelle asked, lowering her voice to a whisper.  “Everything else aside, Elinora Cousland is still a Grey Warden.”

“And you’re both wondering,” Isabela replied, her own voice low, “whether we’ve got any business sharing plans of dubious legality with such authorities.”

“We are,” Fenris answered.

The mirth melted away from Isabela’s face, leaving her as sincere as Amelle had ever seen her.  “If I thought for even a single moment this would result in our—or my—incarceration, I wouldn’t be here.”  Isabela sent her a slightly lopsided smile.  “If nothing else, I think you can trust my ability to avoid… problematic situations.”

Amelle allowed herself a soft chuckle as she shook her head.  “Isabela. Only you would refer to incarceration as a _problematic situation._ ”

Fenris narrowed his eyes, possibly searching for even the slightest hint of an untruth.  “Then you trust her.”

“I do,” Isabela answered.  “And she’s a name on a very short list.  There aren’t many people from my past who greet me with smiles, Hawke.  You’ve known me long enough to know just how true that is.”

Amelle breathed in deeply and exhaled through her teeth.  “Yes,” she murmured.  “I do know that much.”

“The fact of the matter is, she can help us.  As it is, we stand an excellent chance of making a very unpleasant enemy.  Yes, we’re going to be careful and no, none of us would do anything to endanger ourselves unduly, but a little extra protection—a little insurance—is never a bad idea.  I think you both know that as well as I do.”

Later, after Elinora had returned and drinks were poured, it was Varric who explained what they’d found, before producing the legal paperwork they’d pulled off the Tevinter riders and handing it over.  

She read in silence.  

As she read on, Amelle slowly realized the strangest part about being in the company of Elinora Cousland was the woman herself.  She possessed an impressive demeanor, sure and confident, but at ease in that confidence.  As if she knew precisely the best way to put people at ease around her.  And then Amelle remembered that above all else, the woman dealt with politicians and dignitaries, both in her capacity as a Grey Warden and as the governor’s wife.

“So what you’re saying,” Elinora murmured, still frowning at the Tevinter documents, “is that the… not just any mage, but arguably the most powerful man in the Imperium is trying to buy Ferelden mines?”

“Illegally,” Varric added.

“And you lot,” interjected Anders, looking far too amused—overjoyed was a better descriptor—over the whole thing. “Are trying to beat him to it.”

“Before he learns you’ve killed his people,” Cousland finished.

“That’s about the long and short of it,” Amelle said, willing her hands to remain still in her lap, begging her fingers not to pluck at each other like they so dearly wanted.

Elinora sat back in her chair, steepling her fingers.  “It’s a risky plan.  Particularly if the contact you’re dealing with is expecting you to be Archon representatives and there isn’t a single mage among you.”

The quality of silence followed was such that Elinora’s eyebrows lifted towards her hairline.  “Ah.  Or perhaps there is a mage among you.”  She looked from face to face, silently assessing.  She dismissed Isabela and Varric immediately—she knew one personally, and the other couldn’t have been a mage even if he’d wanted it to be so—but her gaze lingered on Amelle and Fenris.

“Elinora,” Anders said, his tone gently chiding.  She turned to grin at him.

“Oh, come now.  You can hardly fault me for trying to guess—“

“Even so.”

She turned back to Amelle and Fenris, addressing them both.  “Well, whichever one of you it is, your secret’s safe with me.  Besides, I hate seeing people carted away during my nameday.  Unless they deserve it.”

“And you are of the opinion apostates do not… deserve it?” Fenris asked, uncharacteristically hesitant.

She looked squarely at Amelle, eyes alight.  “Aha!  I knew it was you!  I thought perhaps your elf friend, but no, he’s already too showy by half, and you do an admirable job of looking normal.”

Amelle found she could do little more than gape.  Anders, on the other hand, let out an audible sigh.  

“You’ll have to excuse her,” he said, looking pained. “She can’t help but treat it as a little… puzzle to be solved.”

“In any case, I mean what I said. You’re in no danger from me.”

Exchanging a quick glance with Fenris, Amelle looked hard at Elinora, searching for some hint of subterfuge, some well-hidden tell that would reveal her as being anything less than perfectly open regarding her words.  She chose her words carefully. “You don’t… agree with the chantry?”

Elinora made a face, drawing her eyebrows together and wrinkling her nose.  “That’s putting it far too simply.  It’s not so much that I don’t _agree_ with them in theory.  In practice, however, I have a harder time finding their methods to be without fault. There is room for improvement, but entities that have been around for as long as the chantry are very slow to change; often it must be eased upon them gradually and subtly in such a way that they become accustomed to the change before they realize there’s been one at all.” 

Yes, Amelle realized, Elinora Cousland _was_ a politician.

“Trust me,” Elinora went on, “were you to decide to make a menace of yourself, I wouldn’t be half so cordial.”  A beat of silence passed.  “You… aren’t planning to make a menace of yourself, are you?”

“She’d hardly tell you if she were,” Nathaniel said, his tone thick with wry amusement.

“In any case, it would appear you have… very nearly everything you need.  Deeds, mages…” Elinora sent a pointed look Isabela’s way.  “An ill-gotten seal.”

“I’ll have you know I wasn’t the one to steal that.”

“To your endless disappointment, I’m sure.” A beat of silence passed.  “Not that I would ever condone such a thing, ever,” she added primly.  “So, falsified documents, a mage, and a seal.  What exactly are you missing?”

“Warm bodies,” Varric stated with a shrug.

“There were eight riders,” Amelle explained.  “And only four of us.”

“Four and three make seven,” Elinora replied.  “Appearances are everything, and that’s close enough to eight that it hardly makes a difference.”

“Alistair would make eight,” Nathaniel pointed out.  The very suggestion of the governor playing a part of this little scheme was enough to send the bottom dropping out of Amelle’s stomach, but Elinora shook her head.

“No, better we not.  I’d rather keep him on standby.  Just in case.  Besides, he’s even more recognizable than I am.  That’s not an insurmountable problem, but it is a problem all the same.”

“I hardly think he’d be glad to hear that,” Anders remarked.  “He complains as it is how much more fun you get to have than he does.”

With a sigh, Elinora looked back at the deeds.  “You aren’t wrong about that.”  A few moments passed.  “I don’t know.  We’ll see.”

“But he’s the _governor,_ ” blurted Amelle.  “This isn’t exactly…”  _Legal,_ she wanted to say.  “Dignified.”

Anders let out a chortle while Nathaniel’s expression turned long-suffering.

“Ah, how much you don’t know,” Elinora murmured, frowning at the deeds a moment longer before folding them back up and handing the packet over to Varric.  “Well, ser dwarf, I’m most definitely intrigued.  Why don’t I see about putting on a pot of tea, and you tell me just what it is you’re planning to do about this?  And we—assuming I’m safe to speak for my cohorts—will see just what type of aid we can lend.”


	24. Chapter 24

The candles had burned down to nearly nothing when, finally, Elinora Cousland pushed her chair back and gave a mighty stretch.  “Well, ser dwarf,” she said, placing both hands at the small of her back and groaning, “I think that should just about do it.”

It was the best news Amelle had heard all day—the best news she’d heard in several days, as a matter of fact.  Not that she was one to linger on bad luck, but they’d had a fair bit of it this trip.  Still, she was going to feel a whole lot better about things once their little bit of theater was over and done with and very much in the past.  Better and worse, because once it was over, there’d be nothing left to do but finally go to Kirkwall and see her brother.  And no matter what Isabela thought about the matter, tucking tail and running wasn’t anywhere on Amelle’s list of viable options.

“Glad you approve,” Varric replied, pushing himself away from the long table around which they’d gathered.  

“I more than approve.  I believe I’m looking forward to it.”

Isabela drained the last winking drops of amber liquor from her glass.  “Though I’ll admit, having the local law on our side—so to speak—is something of a change for us.”

“Shall we make attempts to appear surprised at such news?” Howe murmured.

“Might be good practice,” Anders chimed in.  “Since we’re to be acting anyway.”

“Leave the dramatics to the professionals, sweet thing,” Isabela drawled, giving Anders a wink.  “You just stand there and look menacing.  Try to, anyway.”  

Howe stifled a chortle—badly—and Anders looked wounded.  “I most certainly _can_ look menacing,” he argued plaintively, but not before shooting a sly grin Amelle’s way.  “Can’t I, Miss Hawke?”

Amelle wasn’t particularly sure she was in favor of the quality of smile Anders was sending her; a rush of discomfited color heated her cheeks.

“Well,” she began as noncommittally as possible, “I do recall finding you somewhat intimidating at first, though that may have been the uniform.”

“I had been under the impression you rather fancied the uniform.”

In Amelle’s peripheral vision, Fenris had gone still, his expression patently inscrutable even while another flood of heat rushed to her face as she cast about her brain for some manner of witty reply.  As it turned out, Isabela—reading the writing all too clearly on the wall—managed it for her.  

“That was rather the idea, sweet thing.”

“All a farce, then?” Anders asked lightly, brow arching.  

“You can’t be so surprised,” Isabela countered, matching his tone. “Aren’t we all players of a sort?”

Anders’ expression shifted into some heightened melodramatic kin of melancholy.  “Ah, it’s as I’d feared, sadly.  So much time wasted mooning over a love that was never to— _ow!_ ”  He ducked, belatedly, bringing his hands up to ward against Howe, who’d cuffed him across the back of the head.

“Ignore him,” the darker man said to her—Isabela hadn’t been the only one to read her.  “He’s an idiot.”

“No harm done,” Amelle replied, though her face was still flush with warmth.

“On that note,” Elinora announced, “I suppose we all ought to call it a night.”  She glanced at a gently ticking clock and grimaced.  “And not a moment too soon.  You’re all more than welcome to rest your heads here for the night, or, if you’d prefer, I’ll have one of the carriages take you back round to the hotel.”

“That’s a generous offer, ‘Nora,” drawled Isabela, “but you’ll understand if I have some…” she trailed off, coughing.  “Shall we say _personal items_ in my room I’d rather not leave unattended for longer than absolutely necessary.”

Personal items of a Tevinter nature, Amelle knew.

Elinora looked entirely unsurprised as she stood.  “A carriage it is, then.  If you’ll make yourselves at home while I ask someone to ready the horses, I’ll only be a moment.”

Isabela took the words _make yourself at home_ to mean she had time and opportunity to pour herself another drink, while Varric thumbed through the notes he’d taken, muttering quietly to himself.  Getting to her feet and stretching, Amelle walked a circuit around the library, pausing here and there to peruse the books on the shelves.  Opposite from the fireplace, at the far end of the room stood a set of tall glass doors; beyond them, the warm glow from inside the house illuminated shadowy, leafy outlines.  Amelle pushed one door open and immediately breathed in a cool breeze, carrying with it the scent of honeysuckle, lavender, and roses.  A fountain gurgled softly nearby, and beyond that came the chirp of crickets.  Amelle stepped out into the late night; spring still carried with it a chill, the flagstones cold even through her shoes.  Overhead, stars dotted the night sky and Amelle tipped her head back, watching as speck after speck of light winked into existence.

Behind her the door creaked and she smiled to herself.  “It’s a clear night—all the stars are out.”

“Spring’s always a beast when it comes to travel.  It rains for weeks on end—I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that—and when we finally get clear skies, it’s like the whole world’s transformed.” 

Amelle startled and turned—she’d been so sure it was Fenris who’d joined her that the sound of a female voice caught her wholly by surprise.  Elinora Cousland stood in the little garden, arms crossed, head tilted back as she admired the sky.

“That said,” she went on, “pretty skies don’t undo the rest of the mischief the weather gets up to. Flash floods, mudslides—I’ve even heard tell of sinkholes in some parts.”

“The river flooded just outside of Kinloch Hold on our way here.”

Despite the dimness, the other woman’s surprise was evident.  “You stopped over in Kinloch Hold?”  At Amelle’s nod, she shook her head, breathing a chuckle.  “I can’t tell whether that’s brave of you, or insane.”

“All things considered, it turned out all right,” replied Amelle, keeping her demeanor disinterested enough that the other woman’s line of questioning wouldn’t eventually lead around to just how things had unfolded in Kinloch Hold.  

But no such line of questioning ever came.

“We came perilously close to some rather unpleasant weather events ourselves.” Elinora still looked upward, entirely unaware of Amelle’s thought’s.  “Well,” she said, with lightness that sounded somewhat forced—a surprise, given the ease she’d displayed the rest of the evening. “I suppose that’s enough polite talking-about-the-weather.”

A trickle of adrenaline slid through Amelle’s veins, just enough to leave her unsettled and vaguely queasy.  Swallowing once, she glanced over her shoulder at the others, still in the library.  Only Fenris seemed to be aware she wasn’t in the room; he sat watching the door she’d gone through, but though his posture was alert, he made no move as if to come join her.

“Oh?” she asked, keeping her reply as guileless as she could manage.  “There was something more you wished to discuss?”

“As it happens, I’d like to talk to you about the mines.  Mister Tethras’ plan has you… acquiring them.”

Well, that made a fair bit of sense.  She was the governor’s wife, after all.  There was only so much they could hope to get away with in light of that.

“Ah,” Amelle said, nodding.  “I rather figured you might have opinions about that.”  She gave a rueful shrug.  “To be fair, I’m not a _known_ mage.  We aren’t… _technically_ breaking the law.  Or… well.  Perhaps we are.  But only very technically.”

The other woman frowned thoughtfully, her expression barely discernible in the dark.  “…I think you misunderstand me.  I only wished to know—hmm.”  She paused, looking down at the flagstones, as if figuring out how best to articulate herself.  Given the woman was the Chief Director of the Grey Agency, to say nothing of being intimately acquainted with the governor of Ferelden, Amelle didn’t believe for a moment Elinora Cousland ever experienced any difficulty choosing her words.

“Tell me,” she said after another long moment, “do you actually _want_ them?”

Amelle’s adrenaline rush dissipated into confusion.  “I’m sorry?”  

“The mines,” Elinora said again.  “Do you have any interest whatsoever in owning them?  Do you want them?”

Amelle’s gaze went to the window again.  Fenris hadn’t moved—he still watched the doorway.  Varric and Isabela were in close conference with the two Wardens over something. “…Why do you ask?” 

Elinora walked across the flagstones to the dense honeysuckle bush, but didn’t reply right away.  Beside it, roses had blossomed, some silvery in the moonlight, others dark as jet.  The honeysuckle was beginning to encroach on the roses, and Elinora diverted a twisting vine that threatened one of the fragrant blooms.  “Because I’m not entirely convinced you do,” she finally said, sitting on a low stone wall, kicking her heels against it.  “I confess I might be wrong, but you don’t seem entirely enamored with the idea.”

Amelle didn’t say anything for a moment; instead, she took several slow steps closer to the other side of the honeysuckle, its yellow flowers dull silver in the moonlight.  Somewhere below, hidden in the shadows, the pleasantly astringent scent of lavender wafted upwards, twisting in just under the honeysuckle, like a whisper.  As she considered how honestly to answer, a thin stream of mana began to glow in her veins, warm and welcoming.  She breathed in and flexed her fingers, watching as a glimmer of energy pulsed from the digits.

_Full disclosure it is._

“As it happens,” she said slowly, “I… don’t.”

“You realize it’s an excellent means of income.”

Amelle’s smile was rueful.  “You wouldn’t be the first person to say so.”

Elinora cupped a rose between her fingers and leaned forward to breathe in its perfume.  “No,” she said, on an exhale. “I imagine not.”

Clasping her hands in front of her, Amelle stepped away from the flowering bushes and paced a small circle.  “You also wouldn’t be the first person to point out to me that such a procurement would solidify my security—and perhaps more importantly, my family’s security.”

“That was going to be my next point.”  Elinora paused, and there was weight to it.  “And yet you still don’t really want them.”

“I don’t,” she admitted.

“You must grant me this—it’s a strange thing to hear from anyone.  So few people are so resistant to wealth.”

Amelle tilted her head, narrowing her eyes at the other woman.  “Tell me, does it make you suspicious of my motives?”

“…I wouldn’t say _suspicious,_ ” Elinora acknowledged after a while.  “Curious, more like.”

“You know, I’d be beyond content if I could live in a world where I could ignore lyrium entirely. I never asked to be what I am.”

The look Elinora sent her was too knowing by half.  Yes, she understood completely—better than even Amelle had given her credit for.  “I’ve found many of the people who use lyrium have been _put_ in that position.  Sometimes by someone else. You wouldn’t be the first mage to want a normal life.  Anders has been known to pontificate on that matter at length—even more so after a drink or two.  But I can’t say as I blame him one bit.”

“But that’s simply not the way things are.  I don’t see any of that changing in the future, near or otherwise.”

The other woman’s sigh was deep enough to remind Amelle that Elinora had not come by her position easily—and certainly not without cost.  “The Circle is… flawed,” she conceded.  “I have known Wardens conscripted from Kinloch Hold—and some not from any Circle at all, as it happens.  The problems I’ve had with them have been… minimal.  And yet, as we have seen, the Tevinters haven’t got it right either.”

From the corner of Amelle’s vision, Fenris had stood and was moving nearer the door.  “If you’ll excuse me for being forward, ma’am—”

“What is my point and would I please come to it?”

“I…” Amelle cleared her throat.  “I wasn’t going to put it quite that bluntly.”

“Why not?”  Elinora grinned.  “Candor is not an altogether bad trait.  Sounds to me like you need to spend more time with Anders.  Between you and I, I doubt he’d complain if you did.”

Amelle’s silence, broken only by a soft cough, told Elinora Cousland all.

“Ah.  I see,” she said, after a while.  “Well.  I can hardly blame you.  That elf is quite striking.  And clearly taken with you.”

And again, for what most certainly wasn’t the first time that evening, Amelle’s cheeks burned as she turned away, both from Elinora and Fenris, still framed in the window and thankfully—hopefully—too far away to hear what Elinora had said.  “Somehow I don’t—that is, I think—”

“That we have wandered too far away from the material point?”

Amelle resisted the urge to cover her face with her hands.  “Maker, yes.”  

“Which is lyrium mines and your reluctance to keep them?”

“Indeed.”  In the shadows a small fountain gurgled quietly, moonlight hitting the water and turning it a rippling silver.  “I’d much prefer discussing that, if you don’t mind.”

“Quite fortunate, as it so happens I have a proposal I believe will prove mutually beneficial—and mutually acceptable.”

Those words were more than enough to make her turn.  “A… proposal?”

Elinora nodded.  “First, though, I must ask—though you’ve made clear you don’t want this particular acquisition, I am curious what you plan to do once you acquire them.”

Well, that was easy enough to answer.  “Close them down entirely,” Amelle replied without so much as a breath of hesitation.  “Seems to make the most sense, given the chantry still controls the lyrium trade—”

“And because you would prefer to remain as far from that particular entity as possible, shutting off the mines entirely would mean there was less lyrium in circulation to begin with.”

“Yes.”

Elinora stood.  Amelle hadn’t realized it before, but the other woman was tall—far taller than she, though managed somehow not to be intimidating, though that probably changed depending upon who she spoke to. “Unfortunately, five inaccessible mines would place greater demand on the rest—mines that, sadly, might be owned by less scrupulous people than you.  The supply would go down, which would drive the demand up.”

Amelle blinked.  Of course it would— _of course._  

And now she understood all too well just what Elinora’s concerns were.

“The lyrium trade is a dangerous one,” the other woman went on, “and not just because of the lyrium itself.  The black market is active, and lessening the supply won't ease that activity in the least.  On the contrary, it would likely gain power, since people only turn to black market suppliers when—”

“When they’re looking for something that’s hard to find,” Amelle finished, dread settling in her belly.  Repercussions.  Damn repercussions anyway.

“Guessed it in one.”

Frustration welled up in her chest, sudden and hot.  This wasn’t her problem—shouldn’t have been her problem.  But letting the Imperium own so much lyrium—and doubtless they had ways to circumvent chantry control—wasn’t an option.  Owning the mines herself was an option, but a bad one.  Maybe she ought to have pushed harder for Varric or Isabela to take on such an asset, but her friends’ hearts were in the right place—she’d mentioned more than once she was ready to stop traveling, to settle down.  This… made such a thing possible.

There it was, the answer to all of her problems, and all Amelle could do was treat it like a rattlesnake ready to strike.

 Taking several deep, even breaths, she paced another circle around the little area.

“Believe it or not,” she began, finding reassurance in the gentle scuffing of her boots against the stones, the gurgling fountain, the lavender and the clear sky.  Amelle drew in a steadying breath and let it out again.  “Believe it or not, I understand what you’re saying—truly, I do.  More than that, I _agree._   But I don’t know anything about running a mine.  Above and beyond everything else, whatever moral, ethical, or legal arguments I might have—and I’ve got more than a few—I know nothing about that industry.  I have no business owning a lyrium mine—and yet my friends have a great deal of difficulty seeing the problem.”

“Which is where my proposal comes into play. Instead of closing the mines, what if they were operated with more attention paid to… responsible use?  What if someone were there to provide… oversight on them?”

“Sounds like a damned fine idea, provided you found someone to provide that oversight.”

“I was rather wondering if you’d be interested in the job.”

“Me?” blurted Amelle, coming to a stop so sudden she nearly tripped.  “ _Me_.”  It wasn’t the worst idea she’d heard in recent memory, but it might’ve been in the top ten.  “You want me to… do what, exactly?”

“My proposal is this.  Allow Alistair and myself to assume ownership of the mines.  Between the two of us, we are in a far better position to defend ourselves should the Archon get any ideas of revenge into his head.  We are also—” here she pursed her lips thoughtfully, glancing briefly at the warmly-lit library.  “Should the chantry want to investigate the transfer of ownership—”

“They wouldn’t arrest you on the spot?”

She breathed a laugh.  “I confess I was trying to think of a better way to put it.  But yes.  That all said, however, I… I understand wanting the type of security of which you spoke.  I would not want for you to feel as if I have been the one to swindle you by suggesting you surrender the mines.  Which is why I believe you would be quite suited to the job of overseeing the mines and making sure they’re run properly—and _legally_.”

“I don’t know if I understand what you mean.  What is it you’d expect me to do?”

Elinora spread her hands in a simple, elegant gesture, as smooth and fluid as a shrug.  “Quite simple, really. Pay attention to who’s buying the lyrium and make sure they aren’t unscrupulous bastards.”

She made it sound too damned easy.  “And, ah, what if they _are_ unscrupulous bastards?”

“Then I have the means to make them wish they weren’t.”  Elinora looked at Amelle for a long while; whatever the other woman saw in her face, it was enough to soften her expression slightly, lips turning into a small smile.  “In any event, I wanted you to have another option.  Whether you take it or not is entirely up to you.  You will have my support either way—count on it.  But… well.  I have been in the position where I saw nothing in front of me but bad choices.  I wished to give you one that was marginally less-bad.  Think about it.”

“I… don’t have much time _to_ think about.”

Here her smile turned rueful.  “I know.  And I do apologize for that.  But I hadn’t had the slightest idea what I was walking into when I came upon your card game.”

#

The hour was late by the time a private carriage carried Amelle and her companions from the Cousland estate back to the hotel. Beyond Elinora Cousland’s intriguing—and tempting—offer, Amelle’s head swam full to overflowing with matters spanning from law to logistics.  Varric was quiet, but his particular brand of quiet seemed borne of thoughtfulness.  Fenris, too, wore a sort of pensive silence, not that that was any kind of surprise.  Not that she could blame him, either. It had been a long day—a long series of days.  Judging by Isabela’s wide yawns, she likely felt the same—also not a surprise, given she’d ridden such a distance that morning, back to the site where they’d left the Tevinters and the whole distance back to Highever, all before noon.

It had been, to put it lightly, _a day._   One full of plots and plans and preparation.  

Now it was over, Amelle dragged herself up the staircase, wondering if there’d always been so very many steps.  Varric and Isabela plodded ahead of her, while Fenris’ pace matched her own.

“Are you well?” he asked in an undertone.

A yawn nearly swallowed her reply.  Clapping a hand over her mouth, Amelle nodded, and once she’d recovered from the yawn, said, “I am.  Just… tired.”  

Fenris stepped closer, brows drawn together in a concerned frown, eyes scanning her face for something—some sort of clue, maybe, some sort of truth she wasn’t sharing.  She thought of their conversation before dinner, and Fenris’ confession he’d been helping her recover from the magebane.  The way his eyes narrowed now, she was sure he was looking for some indication that the tincture was bothering her more than she’d admit.

Funny, how well he could read her.

Tilting her head to the side, Amelle sent him a sleepy grin.  “Yes, it… is what you think.  But I think it’s also fair to say I have been dreaming of featherbeds since our impromptu swim.”  She reached out, brushing her fingertips over his hand.  “A few solid hours of sleep in a comfortable bed, and I’ll be right as rain in the morning.”

But Fenris didn’t look entirely convinced.  “You will still need to take your—”  A brief look up and down the hallway.  “Medication.”

“Well, yes.”  She pulled her hand back, fingertips buzzing from the contact.  Hard to tell whether the reaction had to do with her mana, or Fenris.  She certainly had a few guesses.  “We may have made a new friend tonight, but I’m not entirely ready to give up the one thing keeping me from sticking out like a sore thumb.”

Another cloud crossed his features, but he set his jaw and looked away.  Whatever he had to say, he was keeping it to himself.   This too was not a surprise.

“You don’t seem too pleased,” she said, picking her way carefully around her words.

Raking a hand through his hair, Fenris replied, “You have reasons for doing this.  I understand that, and they are… good reasons.”

“Hmmm.  I think I hear a _but_ coming.”

“You do not,” Fenris retorted, his expression turning mulish.

“Oh, I think I do.”

His eyes flashed in the low light.  “I thought you said you were tired.”

Amelle’s mana, sensitive after being so muted, prickled hotly beneath her skin. “And I thought you disliked lies of omission,” she tossed back.  

The words hit closer to home than she’d expected them to.  Fenris stiffened, his jaw setting, and for a sliver of a moment Amelle was certain an argument—more of one, anyway—was sure to follow.  Amelle braced herself, waiting for a sharp tone carrying with it cutting words.  But instead, Fenris exhaled deeply, shoulders sagging, eyes closing.

“It is late.”  When she didn’t say anything more, he moved his shoulders in a bare shrug.  “Contrary as it may seem to admit, I have come to… dislike the effect the tincture has on you.  I do not argue its worth, or the fact it is necessary.  I only wish it weren’t.”  Fenris appeared for a moment like he had something more to say, but subsided.  Perhaps he felt he’d already said too much.

“…Oh.”

“Indeed.”

Beyond his initial approval, she hadn’t given much more thought to Fenris’ opinions on magebane—particularly given his very definite opinions on mages in general.

But then, he’d been by her side through every test of the tincture; more than that, he’d seen her at her worst—nearly drowned, hurt and unable to heal her own injuries—and he’d aided her in a way she’d never have expected.  It was far more likely Fenris had a better idea than anyone just how the magebane affected her.  

It bothered him. 

_I can hardly blame you.  That elf is quite striking.  And clearly taken with you._

The hallway turned warm, the air shifting and turning in a way that made Amelle want to blame her mana, but she knew better.  Her palms tingled, which she could _definitely_ blame on her mana, and so she clasped her hands together and focused all her concentration on breathing.  Breathing was important.  Vital, even.  But then the tingling spread from her palms to the rest of her, up her arms to her shoulders and down her back.  She took another breath—a deep one—and let it out, slowly.

“For whatever it may be worth,” she said quietly, “I wish it weren’t necessary either.”


	25. Chapter 25

Amelle woke to brightness—she’d been so tired the night before she’d forgotten to draw the drapes—and rolled over, burying her face in her pillow with a groan.  Then, slowly, like a trickle of water down a drainpipe, the previous night came back to her.  

First, Fenris’ somewhat surprising opinions on her magebane use—but that twisted and twined around and through the evening’s other revelation: They had an ally in their endeavor, a development none of them had anticipated.  Not just any ally, either—Elinora Cousland, one with not-inconsiderable influence at her fingertips.  An ally who, it appeared, had rather unorthodox opinions regarding mages in general and apostates in particular.  Provided she’d been telling the truth, of course, but woman had no reason to lie—and also kept the company of an apostate mage, which did much for her credibility.

And Elinora Cousland wanted— _wanted_ —the lyrium mines.  More to the point, she seemed to recognize just how badly Amelle didn’t want anything to do with them.  And, to her credit, the woman had a better idea than Amelle herself did on how to run them.  Although, from the sounds of things, the inestimable Miz Cousland had plans for _her_ as well.  Provide oversight on the mines and make sure they operated on the up and up?  She could do that—and maybe more; maybe Elinora would be open to providing better housing for the miners a safer distance away from the mines.  

Assuming, of course, Amelle took her up on her offer.  It was a really good offer.  Her travel wouldn’t necessarily end, not if she was keeping an eye on the mines, but she’d be able to go _home_ from time to time, and for longer than a quick visit.  Maybe long enough to start making it feel like her home again.

Rolling onto her back, she stared at the white plaster ceiling, taking a moment to untangle her thoughts on the matter.  No question about it, she was relieved they had people backing them up, that they had a proper _plan_ now—not to disparage Varric’s ability to scheme, but there’d been a few holes she hadn’t been sure how to work through.  Most noteworthy, though, was her relief they were dealing with people who wouldn’t necessarily hand her over to the templars at the earliest opportunity.

They still had one more day to smooth things out.  On the one hand, it wasn’t much time at all.  On the other hand, they’d done far more with far less.  

Plans or not, schemes or not, mines or not, today Highever was in full celebration mode. One glance out her window revealed Main Street bedecked in blue and silver bunting hung between the gas lampposts.  The townspeople were already out and about, bustling from shop to shop, calling out greetings to their neighbors.  A breeze carried with it the scent of fresh-baked bread and Amelle’s stomach gave an insistent growl.

Perhaps it was time to join them.  She too had last-minute errands to run.

First, and perhaps most importantly, after breakfast Amelle went to the dressmaker.  It soon became evident her idea was far from original—upon opening the door she found the shop to be three times as crowded as the first time she’d been there, the air twice as thick with perfume.  Women wearing streaming gowns in varying hues of blue stood before every mirror in the shop—Amelle suspected they’d brought in extra full-length mirrors for the occasion, as there seemed to be some reflective surface no matter which way she turned, turning the store into a kaleidoscope of blue silk, satin, and organza.  The seamstress and her assistants moved industriously from woman to woman to woman, checking final details before packing gowns up in tissue.  Still more women stood at the counter, admiring bonnets and fancier wide-brimmed straw hats trimmed with ribbons, feathers, silk flowers, and the occasional ornamental bird in bright jewel tones.

Despite the fact that the dress had been so close to Amelle’s size to begin with, she still found herself buttoned and laced into the gown and led before one of the shop’s many mirrors to examine the final fit.

One of Annabel’s assistants, a young woman named Fatima, asked her, “What do you think, Miss Hawke?”

Amelle turned to look in the mirror, lifting her gaze in time to catch the sweep of her skirts, the way the gold thread winked as she moved.  She looked at her reflection, and then she stared.  The fit, unsurprisingly, was perfect, but more than that—the gown was _beautiful._ The green and gold played against her skin, the wide neckline showing off her clavicle and the swell of her breasts (courtesy of the corset beneath—which she could also thank for the generous curve of her hips), the airy organza every bit as light and gossamer as thin morning clouds.

She swallowed, running both hands down the bodice, then down to the full overskirt, letting her fingertips slide across the satin.  

Despite herself, she wondered what Fenris would think—other than remarking on the cumbersome, restrictive nature of the gown, that was.

Several seconds passed without reply, and Fatima cleared her throat worryingly.  “Er, Miss Hawke?  Are you—”

“It’s amazing,” she finally managed, turning this way and that in the mirror, still unable to believe she was wearing—and would be wearing—anything this grand.  More to the point, Amelle could hardly believe she _was_ the woman in the mirror.  “More than amazing.  I’ve… never seen anything like it,” she said, running one careful finger along the lush embroidery.

Fatima nodded enthusiastically, beaming at Amelle—and clearly relieved the gown was a success.  “And since near everyone else will be in blue, you’ll stand out.”

_You’ll stand out._

Tincture or no, there were fewer words in this world that would set a mage—particularly an apostate—to twitching.  But to her credit, Amelle—despite having been in too much of a hurry that morning to remember taking the tincture to begin with—did not twitch.  She also didn’t breathe for a moment, but that easily could have been blamed on her corset.

“Oh, I doubt that,” she finally said, smiling in the mirror as she met the young woman’s eyes.  “It’s not my nameday, after all.  Besides, I’ve heard there’ll be fireworks; come tomorrow morning I doubt anyone will even remember what everyone wore.”

Fatima laughed.  “That’s true enough.  Most years, with all the food and drink, the whole thing passes in a blur.”  Then she lowered her voice conspiratorially.  “But Miz Annabel would rather we not mention that, since it might put a few of these women in the mind not to buy a new dress every year.”  Then she shrugged. “Truth be told, I can’t see as it’d matter.  There are some women who it’d take an act of the Maker Himself to keep them from a new frock.”

Amelle barely suppressed her chuckle—badly.  “You aren’t telling me anything I don’t know.”

After changing back into her own clothes, and feeling considerably plainer for it, Amelle paid for the gown and a few other necessities—and, Maker help her, Isabela had to be rubbing off on her if the word “necessities” passed through her mind without a trace of irony whatsoever—and arranged to have it all delivered to her room at the hotel.  

But the very moment she opened the door to the shop and stepped back outside, caught up almost immediately in the crowded thoroughfare, her pulse tripped and sped with something far more complex than garden-variety anticipation.  By the time she laid her hand on the tailor’s shop’s door, her heart was very nearly ready to pound out of her chest.

 _Don’t be silly,_ she chided herself, taking a calming breath, and then another. _It’s just a gift for a friend._

Easier to believe if thoughts of that “friend” didn’t set her heart pounding all over again.  

She pushed the door open, sending the little bell above it jingling cheerfully.  The tailor, a wizened old elf named Jeremiah, looked up from his counter and smiled at her over his glasses.  He’d assured her the red waistcoat would be ready for today, particularly since Fenris had entered the shop himself after Amelle and Isabela had placed their orders, eliminating any guesswork relating to Fenris’ measurements.

“Thought I’d be seeing you today, miss,” Jeremiah said, pulling the spectacles from his face and tucking them in his breast pocket.

“I do appreciate you finishing it on such short notice,” she replied, taking a few steps in as the door fell shut behind her.  After a moment, she blinked and looked around.  There wasn’t a single other person in the shop, and not the faintest whiff of perfume.

“Something the matter, young lady?”

“Nothing, no,” she replied, shaking her head.  “Only I just came from Miss Annabel’s and—”

“Marveling at the quiet, are you?” he asked, cocking a wry eyebrow at her.

Amelle laughed despite herself.  “Something like that.”

“It’s a little slice of chaos every year,” he said.  “Just between you and me I think she thrives on it.  Oh, she acts plenty put upon, but I’ve known her since she barely reached my knee—taught her to thread her first needle.  That girl loves a big to-do.  Always has.”

“And you?” Amelle asked, looking around at the much quieter shop.  Jeremiah shook his head.

“Whole different business, young lady.  Still got a fair few last-minute orders, but… well, I’m no fan of kerfuffles.  Highever knows if they it wants old Jeremiah’s custom work, they’ve got to give these old hands time to do it.”  His lined face creased into a grin as he tossed her a wink.  “Otherwise how else would I have the time to put together a waistcoat for a lovely visitor?”

“I do appreciate it.”

“I don’t doubt that, Miss Hawke.  You just sit tight and I’ll be right back.”  

#

Elinora Cousland’s words from the night before spun suddenly through Amelle’s head as she stood at Fenris’ door later, cradling the paper-wrapped package.  She lifted her hand to knock, hesitating a moment—

_That elf is quite striking._

—Before pushing through her uncertainty and rapping her knuckles against the door.  The wrapping crinkled against her chest as she listened for movement on the other side of the wood.  It was still early, and they’d all gone to bed abominably late; it was entirely possible Fenris was still asleep, entirely possible he wouldn’t appreciate her interrupting that sleep.

“Hawke?”

Amelle turned at the sound of Fenris’ voice to find him coming down the hallway, looking not only well-rested, but damp from a bath, his still-wet hair falling in segments against his forehead.

 _Oh, Maker’s breath._   Which was either an appropriate or ironic thing to think, as her own breath had quite left her.  She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry, and jerked her gaze down to the carpet as warmth flooded her cheeks and she cast about for something to say, hugging the parcel more tightly against her chest, dimly reminding her why she’d come here at all.

As Fenris drew nearer, with him came a distinctly piney scent—his soap, she realized, breathing in a little deeper—and he stopped long enough to pull his room key from a pocket.  Swallowing hard—again—and fixing a smile to her lips, she looked up to find him watching her curiously as he unlocked his room.

“Is everything all right?” he asked, his brow creasing with concern.

“Yes,” she answered immediately, half surprised she could and that she could speak truthfully, and more than half surprised she managed to find her voice at all.  “For once and for now, everything’s all right.”  Or close enough to it that it didn’t matter.

“Good.  Though we dare not grow accustomed to such circumstances.”  

Amelle allowed herself a soft bark of laughter as she shook her head.  “Maker knows that’s the truth.”  But Fenris still watched her with thinly veiled curiosity, enough to send her nerves jumping as warmth bloomed at the base of her neck.  “I know it’s early—to be honest, I’m half surprised to find you awake at all.”

“I slept… well last night,” he replied, looking almost surprised at the fact.  

“Since Kinloch Hold, things have been…”

“Trying,” he supplied, darkly.

“Exactly so,” Amelle agreed.  “I think we all were in dire need of some rest.  I’m glad you got some.”

“Thank you, Hawke.”

As they descended into silence, Fenris watched her for a moment, and she wondered what he saw in her face.  When the silence between them started to make her itch, the wrapping crinkled as she shifted and Amelle held out the parcel.  “What I meant to say was, I know it’s early, but I came by because I have someth—a gift. I have a gift for you.”

Fenris looked briefly at the parcel before looking up again.  “For me?”

“Yes,” she answered, nodding.  “I hope it wasn’t too presumptuous of me, but I…” she paused, both to take a breath and hand Fenris the package, then clasped her hands tightly behind her back, fingers twisting around and against each other.  “I, ah, thought it would suit—it seemed like it’d suit you.”

He handled the bundle thoughtfully, then pushed open the door to his room.  “I… have nothing to give you in return.  I beg your pardon; I did not realize today’s event was a gift-giving occasion.”

“Oh.”  Amelle blinked.  “Oh.  I don’t know if it is or not.  This is…” His fingers snaked under the string, pulling it free from the parcel.  She swallowed hard.  “This is more of a thank-you gift,” she explained.  “I know it’s probably presumptuous of me—“

“So you’ve said,” he replied, humor tickling the outer edges of his tone just enough to make her stomach flip pleasantly.  

“Ah.”  She cleared her throat.  “So I did.  Maybe you should just open it instead.”

“As you wish,” Fenris said, his normally nimble fingers fumbling with the knots as though he’d received very few gifts in his lifetime.  After a moment more he added, “And for what are you thanking me?”

But before she could answer, he pulled the final knot free, and with that easing of tension, the paper sagged as if it had exhaled a long-held breath.  Amelle, however, still held hers.  Slowly the paper came free as Fenris worked thoughtfully, methodically.  Carefully.  He didn’t seem overtly excited about the gift, but neither did he seem put off by it.  What he seemed, Amelle realized, was entirely unsure of how to respond at all, though his movements and expression were a study in thinly veiled anticipation.

Brown paper gave way to white tissue so thin the red waistcoat showed through, pale and muted.  When that came away, she realized the red was even richer and bolder than it had looked less than an hour ago in Jeremiah’s shop.

Fenris held the garment out, fingers clasping it at the shoulders.  

“I thought—I thought you might like wearing it for tonight’s festivities.”  Fenris didn’t reply and Amelle swallowed hard, her pulse fluttering and blood warming her skin until a slow trickle of sweat trailed down between her shoulder blades.  “I would’ve had to guess at your size,” she went on, “but then you got fitted yourself so I didn’t have to guess.”

Still nothing.

“I—I didn’t use the Archon’s money,” she assured him.  “In case you wondered.  I didn’t—that’s blood money.  I didn’t want to—“

Fenris finally turned to face her.

“Maker’s blood, Fenris, please say something.”

His throat moved as he swallowed.  A muscle twitched in his cheek.  Finally—finally, after what seemed like an age—he spoke.  “I do not believe I have ever been given any thing such as this before.”

“A… waistcoat, you mean?”

“No,” he replied, looking intently at the vest.  “A gift freely given.”

“…Oh.”  She didn’t know what to say to that—if she should say anything at all.  “It’s… it’s for everything you’ve done,” she ventured into the hush that followed.  “Most notably for saving my life—but there are other things as well.  I… Fenris, I _appreciate_ you,” she said, a sudden wave of self-conscious foolishness swamping her.  Fenris held the vest out in front of him but said nothing as he admired it—Maker, she _hoped_ he was admiring it.  “I’d probably be dead right now if not for you—”

He looked away from the vest, letting it drop to the bed in a pool of red silk.  “Hawke—”

“Please. Let me finish.”

He inclined his head.  “Very well.”

“Your presence on this trip—your friendship, too—has been invaluable.  I—I wanted to… to give you something to show you—I know I invited you to come along because we were heading the same way, but I…”

The words tangled in her mouth, her tongue tripping over them, and it was in the middle of that tangle of words Amelle realized it wasn’t only friendship she felt—the emotion that was giving her such a bloody difficult time expressing herself was far more complex than friendship.  She swallowed hard again and said, her heart pounding in her ears, a truth she’d been holding on to since she’d clung to him, half-drowned, on Agrippa’s back:

“You’re…”  How to say it?  How could she convey this complexity in a way he could understand?  In a way that didn’t feel so much like standing at the edge of an impossibly high ledge and flinging herself off of it.  “You’ve—” _become dear to me and I don’t understand it but there it is._ “You’re… important to me.”

She dared not imagine how he’d have taken that which had remained unspoken, since her words took him by such surprise—Fenris’ widened eyes and quick intake of breath was enough to tell her that—and for a starkly terrifying moment, Amelle wondered—feared, really—she’d said too much.  That Fenris had managed to peer through the tangle of words and thoughts filling her throat and had seen the truth hidden in all she’d left unsaid.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted, shaking her head and taking a step back.  “It was too presumptuous of me.  Those are probably—”

He took a step forward, erasing the distance she’d just put between them.  “Hawke—”

“—Probably the last words you want to hear from someone like me—“  She took another step back, as Fenris took yet another step forward, one hand snatching out to grasp her arm.

“Hawke. Enough.”

If the words and the tone they’d been delivered in hadn’t been enough to stop her cold, Fenris hand on her arm more than sufficed.

“Would you permit me a moment to speak?”

After a long moment she gave a short, uncertain nod.

A hint of a smile kicked up at the corner of his mouth.  “Without interruption?”

Again, she nodded.

He looked down at her arm where he held her, loosening his fingers after a moment, without quite letting go entirely.

“I…you should know I am not…impartial to you,” he said, the words coming slowly, as if he were giving each one its due consideration.  Fenris never lifted his eyes from his hand on her arm.  A second passed, then two, and his expression contorted into a brief grimace.  “No. That is not what I wish to say, either.”

Well. At least he was having at least as much difficulty as she’d had.

Finally Fenris pulled his gaze from his hand upon her arm, looking her square in the eye.  His jaw set with defiance, and for a moment Amelle wondered if that defiance was directed at her, but no—

“You are also… important to me.”

She blinked, casting about for a reply, but the most she could manage was, “…Oh?”

“In ways which I could never have anticipated.”  He gave a laugh that was barely a laugh and little more than a breath. “Or foreseen.”  Again he struggled with his words and Amelle, too familiar with _that_ , slowly slid her arm within his grip until they were palm to palm.  His fingers, warm and rough with calluses, threaded with hers.

“You know, I don’t find it all that hard to believe.”

“No?”  The look he gave her was almost arch—almost, but not quite—and laced with what bore a striking resemblance to relief.

She squeezed his hand and smiled, not unkindly.  “Considering how swimmingly our first meeting went?” He grimaced again and she could not quite contain her chuckle.  “Sorry.  I can’t resist teasing you a little.”

“I assure you, I have noticed.”  Whether he’d pulled her with gentle pressure or she’d moved of her own volition, Amelle found herself far closer to Fenris than she’d been even moments before.  The scent of his soap, still strong so soon after his bath, wound around them, sharp and clean and very, very _Fenris._

“Was it—was it the tower?” she asked, her voice low.

“Earlier than that, I think,” he murmured. “Though that particular incident did put things into…perspective.”

“I, ah, think I know what you mean,” she replied, her own voice hoarse and scarcely louder than a whisper.  The backs of Fenris’ fingers brushed across her cheek and up to her temple, sending a shiver chasing across her skin as she leaned into the touch.  And then, tilting her head up, she leant in even closer, brushing her mouth chastely across his.  This time Fenris’ intake of breath was more than a mere sound; it was cool across her lips, like a soft, intimate breeze, followed by warmth again as he returned the gesture, just as chastely.  Once, twice—on the third time the tip of her tongue darted out—accidentally or intentionally; she wasn’t sure—grazing lightly across Fenris’ upper lip.

With that brief contact, the teasing, chaste brushes ceased.

Their kiss in the tower had been sudden—and that one, too, had been preceded by teasing—but sudden and impatient and, Maker’s blood, _hungry._ It had been a whirlwind of impetuous spontaneity.  Now, though, hunger and heat simmered beneath the surface of something that unfolded both slowly and thoroughly. Now when his hands slid into her hair, his short nails teasing across her scalp rather than twining tightly in the strands.  Now when the kiss deepened, Amelle’s hands slid up his chest (was that tattoo his _heart_ pounding against her palms?) and lifted up on tiptoes as she leaned into—fell into, dove into—the embrace.  With light, questing touches, her fingertips found his shoulders, the shell of his ear, the nape of his neck where his hair clung, still damp from his bath, the curve of his spine until he groaned, deepening the kiss further, tightening his hands on her as his teeth caught her lip, her tongue sliding against his until the kiss broke, both of them out of breath and—for Amelle’s part, anyway—trembling.

She swallowed hard.  “Well,” she managed.

It took several unsteady breaths before Fenris replied.  “Indeed.”

They didn’t part.  He stroked his thumb along her collarbone, resting his forehead against hers.  They might have moved forward; the bed stood next to them, beckoning, an inviting expanse of soft linens and down-filled pillows.  But they remained still, remained together, knowing perfectly well enough had changed in mere minutes; things did not need to change further just yet.

“I had not…entirely intended to do that,” he told her, the warmth of his breath tickling her skin.  “At that moment, in any case.”

Amelle loosed a soft huff of laughter and pressed another chaste kiss to Fenris’ lips.  “But you had been intending to at some point?”

He shifted, a whisper of discomfiture settling on his features.  “Perhaps… eventually.”

“I find myself glad for your impatience, messere.”

Discomfiture shifted too easily into concern as Fenris’ brows knitted.  “You do not feel as if this complicates matters?”

An excellent question.  Did it?  Rather than pretend she didn’t know what Fenris was talking about, Amelle looked down instead at their joined hands.  “Considering kissing you hadn’t exactly been far from my mind either?”  She shrugged, then shook her head.  “I don’t know.  I’m almost sure it does complicate some things.  I know we’re both going to Kirkwall, but…”

“You have no intention of staying there, and I don’t know where I will go from there.”

“You have a gift for boiling things down to their simplest parts, don’t you?” she answered on an exhale.  “But yes, you’re right.  In which case, it seems to me the best course of action available to us,” she said, looking up from their hands and meeting his eyes, “is to take everything as it comes, one day, one step at a time.”

Fenris considered this and, after a long moment, nodded as a small, thoughtful frown marred his brow.  “We neither of us know what will come tomorrow.”

“Well,” Amelle countered.  “We have _something_ of an idea of what will come tomorrow.”  Then she smiled. “Which is why I’m looking forward to tonight.”

 But the frown didn’t alleviate; if anything, it deepened.  “Truth be told,” he began slowly, “I still have concerns over what we will attempt tomorrow.”

“I’d worry if you didn’t,” Amelle replied, her tone thoughtful.  “Though, I have to admit I’m worrying somewhat less than I might have otherwise.”

“Because of the Warden?”  At Amelle’s nod, Fenris looked down at their hands.  “You trust Cousland, then.”  It wasn’t a question.

“I do.  Maker knows if she’d been interested in apprehending us, she could have done so dozens of times last night.”

“I… noticed you spoke privately with her.  It is none of my business, I realize, but—”

“She figured out—shockingly fast, I might add—that I don’t actually want the mines,” said Amelle with a shrug.  “It wasn’t a… bad conversation.”

“And yet it seems there was some intent to it.”

“She offered me an alternative.  A compromise of sorts.”  At Fenris’ curious look, she went on.  “I allow her name to be put on the deeds, making her and Governor Theirin the legal owners of the minds, and I… will be in charge of oversight.  Making sure they run legally—and, more to the point, ethically.”

Fenris’ frown hadn’t eased, though the quality of it now seemed pensive as opposed to concerned. “Have you accepted this offer?”

“I…”  Amelle breathed deeply, letting the air out in a hiss between her teeth.  “I haven’t decided yet.  She made some excellent points—most of which I hadn’t considered, which tells me just how much I _don’t_ know about the lyrium trade.”  Sneaking a sidelong glance at Fenris, she said, “But I think—I _think_ I’m considering accepting her offer.  She made it quite clear there’s no question I’d be compensated, so it’s not as if she’s trying to double-cross me.  Besides which, it’s not as if we’re on any real high moral high ground, since we’re trying to cheat a cheater.”

Fenris took this all in, but didn’t say anything for several seconds.  “It seems to me,” he began slowly, “that this would provide a buffer between your position and the chantry as well.”

“Believe me, I’d noticed that.  And I can think of worse people to have as a buffer between me and the chantry.”

“And I can think of no better person to keep such an establishment honest.”

“Maker, Fenris, I’m surprised you can say that with a straight face.”

He brought his fingers to rest just beneath her chin, tipping her face up until she met his eyes.  “I would not say such a thing if I did not mean it.  You have integrity, Amelle Hawke.  Do not think I am ignorant of it.”

There was no point in trying to hide her blush—not with Fenris this close—but the words and the tone he’d spoken them in sent a thrill down her spine.  She parted her lips to speak, but Fenris silenced whatever words she might have said with another kiss.

When they parted again, she breathed, tremulously, “Just don’t let it get around, all right?”

Fenris’ smile, small and secret, warmed his eyes.  “You have my word.”

Just then, the distant sound of trumpets and trombones called through the air, carried on the breeze; the nameday parade had begun—it was meant to circle the town before cutting through Main Street and ending at the town square, led by the brass band they’d heard practicing the afternoon they’d arrived in Highever.

Amelle grinned at Fenris.  “What do you say?” she asked, tipping her head at the window.  “Shall we go outside and partake in the festivities?”

“It so happens I have an excellent view of the square from my window,” he offered.  

Her grin widened.  “Looks like we’ll have the best seat in the house."


	26. Chapter 26

Hawke was late.

With every minute that passed, every minute she did not show herself, Fenris’ grip on the stairway balustrade grew more unforgiving.  He did not give in to the urge to pace, though he dearly wanted to; he needed to move, needed to do something other than hold onto the heavy wooden railing and grind his teeth.  Pacing, however, doubtless would have attracted Varric’s attention, to say nothing of Isabela’s, and the longer Hawke’s appearance was delayed, the greater the chance of them noticing such inconvenient details.  Instead, he watched the people below mill about in the hotel lobby, dressed in all manner of finery in varying shades of blue and silver.  Ladies’ laughter tinkled like so many bells as they twirled in their gowns, showing off for each other before either vanishing into the dining room or through the front doors to rejoin Highever’s revelry.  

Isabela heaved a great sigh and leaned over the railing, looking down at the collection of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen below.  “What a waste.”

“How so?” Fenris asked.  

From his other side, Varric chuckled.  “It’s a waste because it’s not _her_ arms dripping with pretty, pretty gems.”

“That I _can’t steal._ ”

“Group rule is not to make trouble—too much trouble, anyway—the night before we’re… about to make trouble,” Varric explained.

“Hmph,” Isabela sniffed, sending a final glare down below before turning her back against the railing.  “It’s probably all paste down there.”

“Probably not even _decent_ fakes,” Varric offered, clearly attempting to cheer her up.  

“And the day is nearly over,” Fenris pointed out.

“See, Rivaini?  We’re in the home stretch.”  Though, by Isabela’s answering expression, that was hardly any consolation.

The festivities had started early—Fenris and Hawke had watched the parade from his room, standing shoulder to shoulder in companionable silence, and though he hadn’t planned on watching it (even if outright ignoring the parade wasn’t an option, given the volume of the band), the company had made the event… enjoyable.  They’d later ventured out to explore the carnival games and food vendors, and though Fenris had not been terribly enamored of the crowds, Hawke’s hand, so firmly in his, had made the press of people very nearly bearable.

But it was the evening’s revelry that had all of Highever’s attention.  There was to be food, drink, and dancing well into the night and, ostensibly, fireworks, provided by the mage Warden.  Even Hawke had wanted to return to her room early to prepare.  Was, evidently, _still_ preparing.

Fenris breathed in and let it out again, but that did nothing to quell the nerves determined to skitter and twitch beneath his skin.  He tried again, closing his eyes and counting as he drew air into his lungs and pushed it out again.  He was being foolish; that much was not a mystery to him.  And yet he could not help but wonder—

The pliancy of Hawke’s mouth, the warmth of her hands, her arms all lived vibrantly in his memory.  Clearly things between them were changing, but he could not begin to guess the ways in which such a change might manifest itself—or if it would at all.  They had kissed, yes—and with intent, yes—but it was not such an easy thing for Fenris to throw caution to the four winds.  Questions that hadn’t existed before now formed out of the ether, and though those questions did not require an immediate answer, they still lurked just beyond reach.

As these unknowable variables swirled through his head, Fenris exhaled, his fingers drifting to the waistcoat he wore—and for not the first time since he’d put it on.  The moment the tissue had fallen away to reveal such _finery_ , he’d not known what to say.  The garment fit perfectly, possibly better than any other he owned, and the silk was rich and soft beneath his fingertips.  What did one say to a gift such as that?

A gift.  _A gift._ One without conditions, without rules, strings, _requirements._

_You’re important to me._

It was folly for him to pretend Hawke hadn’t also become more important to him, foolish to pretend he didn’t worry for her, absurd to act as if she did not matter to him any more than anyone else.  And so, he’d decided to stop pretending—and such a decision had terrified him at the time, for there was so much— _too much_ —that could not be known in the wake of such an act.  Particularly an act that was tantamount to a confession.

The leap had been one of faith—faith Fenris had long believed lost, if it had ever existed to begin with; he didn’t know—but the landing, the landing had been soft caresses and warm arms followed by a warmer mouth.  The landing had been acceptance.

Perhaps it was a mistake to assume things would begin to change now; they’d been slowly changing for quite some time already.

Isabela’s voice cut through the gathering din, startling Fenris out of his thoughts.  “Oh, Andraste’s saggy tits, it’s about _time._ ”

Varric let out a low whistle and said, “Whoa, you clean up pretty well there, Hawke.”

Fenris whirled, a remark directed towards Hawke’s tardiness sitting perched on his tongue.  But when he saw her, those words—and any others he might have thought to speak afterward—vanished.

He’d seen Hawke in gowns before; indeed, she tended to favor them unless practicality stated otherwise.  But he’d never imagined her in a gown so very fine.  Perhaps surprisingly, Hawke did not favor blue like so many other of the ladies he’d seen so far.  But, in the candlelight, the swaths of green and gold satin made her skin look as if it were glowing.  Flecks of gold thread flashed with every movement, even while the satin rippled like water.  Along the neckline, some manner of gauzy material floated, baring her shoulders, the gentle swell of her breasts, and the slim column of her neck, around which she wore a length of gold ribbon.

She would not be lost in an ocean of blue, no.  Not in jewel-toned and sun-kissed satin.

“You can thank me any time for talking you into that dress, Hawke,” Isabela remarked smugly.  _“Any time._ ”

“I believe,” Hawke said, a blush already blooming along her neckline, “I thanked you already.”

“Did you?” Isabela asked, tapping her chin in a poor charade of thoughtfulness. “I’ve forgotten.  Thank me again anyway.”

“Come on, Rivaini,” Varric said, taking Isabela’s arm and steering her away.  “Maybe if we’re lucky you’ll forget you want to rob half of Highever blind before the night’s over.”  With that, they started down the stairwell, leaving Fenris and Hawke a modicum of privacy, however temporary.

He was immensely thankful for it.

“You…” he began.

“Yes?” Hawke prompted.  It was then he lifted her eyes to her face and saw—not only hopefulness in her smile, but color in her cheeks, rather than the paleness he had been expecting.  When he held out his hand to her, that color in her cheeks only turned warmer.

All too aware of their audience, he murmured quietly, “I fear there is nothing I could say that would not be dismissed out of hand for being hopelessly trite.”

She gave his hand a squeeze.  “I don’t mind trite.”

“Then,” he said, his low words for her alone as he met her eyes, “allow me to say I have never seen you lovelier.”

Hawke blinked; the blush that had only begun to fade returned with a vengeance and she looked down, adjusting her wrap—which didn’t need it—and fidgeting with the tiny satin purse that dangled from her wrist.  “O-oh.  That’s—that’s—”

“It is the truth.” He canted his head closer and lowered his voice.  “I also notice you have gone without your tincture.”

She smiled then, her blushing discomfiture ebbing somewhat.  “I confess I forgot it this morning, but it seems rather pointless to take it now, not when I need to be a mage tomorrow.”

More than just a mage, he knew; she would have to be a magister, and a convincing one.  The idea of it was so far from her blushes, from the warmth in her smile that Fenris pushed the image of it from his mind.  It did not bear imagining just yet.

With a shrug, she went on, “Probably better _not_ to keep too tight a lid on my mana just before a point I’ll need it.”  She paused as he offered her his arm.  “Does it trouble you?” she asked, sliding her arm into his, her hand resting gently at the crook of his elbow as they took the stairs, catching up with Isabela and Varric midway.

“No,” he admitted, with no little surprise, “it does not.”

“Not that I’m one to discourage you from mooning at each other,” Isabela said, pausing upon a step and jutting her hip so a curtain of garnet satin swept out and back again, “but there’s a party going on, and where there’s drink is where I want to be.”

“Ah, Rivaini.” Varric shook his head—yes, fondly; Fenris saw it now.  “Where would we be without your tact?”

Isabela snorted, lips curving to a grin.  “Tact is what people use when they don’t want to be truthful.  Tact wastes precious time, Fuzzy.”

“Thanks for reminding us you can be a paragon of honesty when you want to be,” Hawke remarked as they continued their way down the stairwell.

“Sweet thing,” she tossed back, “I can be _anything_ when I want to be.”

They dined at the hotel—its fare even richer and more impressive than it had been the previous night—before making their way outside.  The streets were every bit as crowded as they had been earlier as they navigated the throng, Hawke’s hand warm and sure at his elbow.

“So,” Hawke began, “where shall we wander?”  Set up near the square were long, covered tables bearing intricately decorated fairy cakes and punch, to say nothing of more adult refreshment, served by uniformed men and women—the Cousland family’s staff, if Fenris were to guess.  Neighbors and friends greeted each other, talking and laughing and calling out over the crowds, while some people tucked themselves in clusters, enjoying glasses of sparkling Orlesian wine as they observed the mirth around them.

Varric glanced around at the masses surrounding them.  “I think Rivaini and I might—”

Hawke dimpled at him.  “Take in a card game?” 

“No,” he replied with a shake of his head.  “We figured be better off doing a little… active listening.”

“Possibly,” Isabela chimed in, “sitting down somewhere, with a glass of something a little stronger than Orlesian bubbly.”

“I thought we were taking the night off,” Hawke said, though she didn’t seem terribly concerned; in fact, her tone was gently chiding, as if she weren’t surprised in the least.

Varric waved one broad hand.  “Anything I do tonight isn’t going to be _work,_ Hawke.  A tankard of ale, with the Rivaini for company, while we keep our ears open for loose lips?  That _is_ a day off for me.”

After a moment, Hawke nodded.  “All right.  It may be someone’s noticed our contact, if he’s even in town yet.”

“Our thoughts exactly,” Isabela agreed.  

“I heard the fireworks were supposed to start at midnight,” Varric said.  “Let’s meet up by the gazebo in town for the show.”  With that, he and Isabela turned in the direction of one of Highever’s taverns, moving until the crowd swallowed them both.

“Do you believe them?” Fenris asked, once they were alone.

“Not in the slightest,” Hawke returned with a particularly smile that sent something warm and pleasant chase across his skin.  “Either they wanted privacy—relatively speaking—” she amended, waving a hand at the people surrounding them, “or wanted to give us some.  But I’m not about to complain either way.”

Neither was Fenris.

Highever truly was transformed this evening.  The gas-lit street lamps flickered merrily as families and couples and tightly-knit clusters of visitors all made their slow way up and down the street where vendors sold little banners, flags, and even ladies’ handkerchiefs and men’s cravats embroidered with the Cousland crest.  As they walked, Hawke settled more comfortably against his arm, and the way she fit so naturally there left Fenris very nearly unnerved.  He had never thought—never _dared_ think something as natural as walking along a crowded street with an attractive woman on his arm would ever be allowed someone like him.  And yet, here he was.  Here they were.  Granted, the reality of Danarius eventually sending more hunters out to recover him—or making the journey himself—was never terribly far from his mind, because it _couldn’t_ be.  But for now, for this moment, Fenris decided to allow himself to find pleasure in the warmth pressed against his side.

The warmth of a woman who simply wished to be there, not because of how much he was worth or what he could do.  And he, in turn, wanted her to be there.

Fenris could not help but marvel at it.

“You’re thinking,” Hawke murmured, looking up at him.  Fenris shrugged a shoulder in reply.

“Perhaps a little.”

“Copper for your thoughts?”

He shook his head.  “They are inconsequential, and hardly worth a copper at all.  Only that I have never experienced anything quite like this before now.”

Hawke nodded, but whatever words she might have spoken disappeared in a scowl as a woman with skirts far more voluminous than practicality dictated swept by, jostling her against him.  Steading her by the elbow, he lowered his head to hers and said, “We are reaching the outer edges of the crowd.  If you like, we could find somewhere to sit.”

“I’d settle for somewhere I could breathe,” she replied, but the scowl had ebbed somewhat into an expression more suited to her.

“Then let us move on.”

Once they had passed through the square and drew nearer to the Griffon theatre, where they had heard musicians practicing for the very parade he and Hawke had watched that morning, the throng had thinned enough that they could walk without fearing collision.  But as they moved closer to the theatre, it became evident the place was once again a source of music.

Hawke read his look with unnerving accuracy.  “There’s dancing inside.  I don’t know if it’s a…” she slowed as they passed the open doors.  “—A ball.” Going up on tiptoes, she craned her neck.  “Or maybe something not-quite a ball.”

Fenris looked at her a moment; Hawke wasn’t the only one who could interpret expressions, after all, and hers was full to overflowing with longing.

“Do you wish to join them?”

Longing jolted into surprise, followed by dismay as she shook her head.  “Maker, no.  No.  I—no.”

The vehemence in her reply startled him.  “Forgive me.  You appeared interested.”

“No, it’s—”  Hawke bit down on her lower lip and glanced through the open doors again.  “I don’t—I can’t… I can’t.”

“Dance?”

“I—when I was small, my mother taught me a little.  But then…”  She looked down at her hands and swallowed.  “And then it was more important to learn other things instead.  And it became obvious I wasn’t going to be able to put in the same… the same sorts of appearances as the other girls in Lothering.”  When Hawke looked up again, her smile was a rueful one.  “I resisted every time Mama tried teaching me.  Figured I’d never use it.  Besides, this isn’t anything like some little country dance at a barn raising.”

“Hawke.”

“Yes?”

“Do you _wish_ to dance?”

Another longing look through the playhouse doors.  “Oh, yes,” she whispered.

Sliding his arm from hers, he grasped her hand.  “Then come with me.”

“ _No_ , Fenris—!” but her protest was lost as he pulled her, not into the playhouse, but past it.  Past it and several other buildings, in fact.  He’d spent much of his time in Highever learning it, from the routes into and out of the city, to the narrow paths between buildings that led to other paths and routes, peppered with nooks and niches at every turn.

It was because of this Fenris knew Highever’s library and the playhouse stood more or less back to back, separated only by a shallow pond across which a wooden footbridge stretched.  In the daylight, it was a peaceful place, particularly when the wind caught the reeds and sent the water rippling.  

“You weren’t kidding when you said you’d been exploring the town,” Hawke murmured.

“No,” he replied, leading her midway across the bridge.  “I was not.”

When she spoke again, her voice was softer, more uncertain.  “What now?”

“Now,” Fenris replied, taking one of Hawke’s hands and settling it at his shoulder, while he grasped the other and settled his hand at her waist, “we dance.”

“You… know how?”

What could he tell her?  That any slave worth his or her price in Minrathous knew precisely how to behave in polite company—even bodyguards?  Could he tell her about the welts that had blossomed along the backs of his calves every time he missed or fumbled a step to any one of Tevinter’s countless waltzes and minuets?

Perhaps he could.  But he wasn’t going to.

“I have some idea,” he replied, pulling Hawke into a simple box-step.  “Though I admit what I know may not be fashionable here.”

She smiled up at him, rueful.  “Well, that makes two of us.”

At first Hawke struggled with the pattern, cursing whenever the toe of her slipper trod across his boot, her head bent as she tried to stare downward.  “I can’t see,” she hissed, frustration turning her tone ragged. She stepped on his foot again and she stopped, pulling her hands away and shaking her head.  “I can’t see my feet around these skirts.  I can’t do this.  I can’t _see._ ”

Before she could take another step back—and, more importantly, before she began believing her own words—Fenris gripped her shoulders, ducking his head to meet her eyes in the moonlight.  “You do not need to see.  Not for this.”

“Fenris—”  But he pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her.  Her eyes went wide and her breath caught at the gentle pressure,  and he found himself faced the tantalizing urge to run the pad of his finger along her lower lip.

“All you have to do is trust me to lead you,” he said, suddenly, acutely aware of just how soft Hawke’s lips were.  He swallowed once.  “Do you trust me?”

How strange to expect hesitation and find none.  Hawke nodded, then caught his hand in hers, turning it to press a kiss to his palm.  “I do,” she said, the words nearly lost to the hush around them.

“Then,” he said, and even clearing his throat did nothing to alleviate the husky quality from his voice, “let us try again.”

And so it went—long enough that it became evident Hawke did indeed have some measure of natural grace, and once she stopped trying to see her feet and follow their movement with her eyes, she eventually stopped stepping on his feet entirely. Not long after that she started enjoying herself, her grip more sure at his shoulder and her smile more confident as their steps wove into shadow and moonlight at turns.

When he next released Hawke, it was to the sound of her laughter.  She twirled away and back again in a swirl of skirts before pressing a warm, lingering kiss to his cheek, and then another to the corner of his mouth.   “Thank you.”

“You needn’t always thank me.”

“How else should I show you my appreciation, then?”

She spoke the words so lightly, Fenris _knew_ she hadn’t meant them as anything other than innocent.  But Hawke realized too late what she’d said and bowed her head, covering her eyes with one hand.  “Maker’s blood, I _do_ step in it, don’t I?”

He chuckled, pulling her closer, resting his cheek against the crown of her head.  “It is no matter.  I understood your meaning.”

A high, shrill whistle cut the night’s silence, and they both went tense before a sparkling white light blazed upwards, cutting a bright swath through the night sky before scattering into dozens of sparks, twinkling like so many stars.

“Anders’ fireworks,” she murmured, tipping her head back.  “I imagine Isabela and Varric will be at the square, waiting for us.”

“Shall we rejoin them?”

“Soon, but not just yet,” she replied, taking a step closer to the smooth wooden railing.  Another stream of light, this one red, spun upwards before bursting into a cascade of glittering motes.   “Besides, he’s not the only mage who knows how to put on a show.”  

With that, she cupped her hands and took a breath; moments later, a tiny whirlwind of iridescent sparks spun to life in her hands, blooming outwards like a flower.  Then, arms outstretched over the railing, Hawke let the sparks fall in a tumble from her hands, down into the pond, where they settled atop the water’s still surface like so many fireflies.  She looked up at him then, her face lit from above and below, her joy evident and unrestrained.

At first Fenris thought it had been her display of magic that had provoked such a reaction—such happiness.  

But then Hawke leaned closer, lifting herself up and pressing a slow kiss to his lips and scant moments before Fenris let himself tumble into the embrace, his hands threading gently into her hair as she pressed against him all satin and soft skin, he realized with incongruous clarity—no; no, that hadn’t been it at all.


	27. Chapter 27

Highever’s merriment carried on well into the wee hours. Though they’d lingered on that little bridge, Amelle and Fenris managed to find Isabela and Varric before Anders’ fireworks display ended, giving them all ample time to return to the hotel. They’d settled their bill in advance, and their bags were already packed, so there was little fuss meeting Elinora Cousland’s private carriage. Moving to the Cousland estate was the wisest move; it allowed greater physical distance between them and the chantry, and afforded a great deal more privacy. Isabela hadn’t been terribly keen on placing herself so far from the town center until Varric reminded her Grey Wardens played cards, too.

“Though you might want to consider not cheating when playing against the governor’s wife,” Varric had told her.

But Isabela had only laughed, saying,“Fuzzy, believe me when I say Elinora’s been around for enough rounds of cards to know exactly how I play.”

“And how you innuendo, evidently,” Varric had replied.

By that hour, “merriment” amounted largely to “inebriated townsfolk stumbling in the middle of the street,” which, though amusing, was also an impediment that induced the carriage driver to lead them around Highever’s outskirts, avoiding the worst of the celebratory fallout.The estate was warmly-lit when they finally arrived, greeted by both Elinora and her brother, Fergus, who it appeared knew little of his sister’s plans, given that he greeted them all as “welcome guests.”

Isabela gave a soft snort and Amelle landed a light kick against her ankle.

Despite how pleasant the day had been—and it most certainly had, to say nothing of the evening—it had also been long; Amelle was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow. She dreamed of moonlit ponds, sure hands, and a voice like whiskey and shadow.

She slept remarkably soundly, eventually woken by the scent of bacon and coffee and baking bread tantalizing enough to rouse her from the feather mattress with its impossibly soft sheets and sachet-scented pillows.Hastily she drew a dressing gown over her nightclothes and cautiously picked her way downstairs. The Cousland dining room was cheerfully lit; flickering sconces pushed against the dim early morning light. Varric sat at one end of the impossibly long dining room table, which was already laden with more food than Amelle had ever seen in one sitting. He nursed a steaming cup of coffee, building plans spread out all around him.

“Maker’s breath, have you even slept?”

Varric looked up, momentarily startled; almost immediately his features relaxed into an expression far more familiar and at home on his face. “Sometimes the quality of sleep is more important than the quantity,” he returned, gesturing with one broad hand at the silver coffee pot, steam issuing from the artfully curved spout.“What about you?” he asked. “Late night for you, too.”

“I slept, at least,” Amelle said, taking a seat and turning her attention to the silver coffee server as she poured herself a cup. She stirred in cream—Maker’s breath, _real_ cream—the only sound in the room the gentle clink of her spoon against the sides of the cup.“Is anyone else up yet?”

“Far as I know, it’s just you, me, and the kitchen staff right now.I reckon that’ll change sooner or later—probably sooner—but for now, you’re the only other person I’ve seen.”He paused a moment, watching her shrewdly before asking: “Why?”

Slowly, Amelle drew her spoon from the cup and set it gently, deliberately, on its saucer. “Elinora Cousland spoke privately with me the other night.”

He snorted softly. “Oh, believe me, I’d noticed.”

That was hardly a surprise; Varric was nothing if not observant.“You noticed, but didn’t say anything about it?”

He shrugged. “Contrary to popular belief, I do know a thing or two about discretion.”

“Or you figured you’d pull it out of me over a few drinks?”

“Or that,” he conceded with a shrug.“But you came to me first.So,” he went on, “what did the esteemed Director of the Grey have to say that wasn’t appropriate for our delicate ears?”

Amelle picked up the spoon again, twirling it slowly between her fingers.“She wanted to talk to me about the mines,” she replied, before outlining the other woman’s proposition. To Varric’s credit, his expression remained perfectly neutral.

Once she’d finished, her friend sat back, his brows drawing together in—no, it wasn’t quite concern, though perhaps concern’s second cousin.“You sure about this, Hawke?” He grimaced. “Sorry. That… came out wrong. I’ve known you a long time—long enough to know you know your own mind. But I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret—or resent—later.”

The answer came with surprising ease, and as Amelle spoke, she knew deep in her bones every word was true.“I don’t know the first damned thing about owning or operating lyrium mines,” she admitted.“More to the point, I’m not sure how long I’d be able to keep avoiding the chantry if I owned even a single mine, never mind five.” She took a sip of coffee and sighed at the heat as it coursed down her throat. “Yes. I’m sure.”

“And you’re satisfied Cousland isn’t going to try and cheat you?”

“Strange as it may seem, I am.” Amelle cradled the cup between her hands, letting it warm her palms. “And Isabela trusts her.”

He gestured with his cup before taking a long drink. “This is an excellent point. As we both know, anyone who’s got the Rivaini’s trust has earned it a few hundred times over.” He paused a moment, regarding her closely. “I just want you to be sure.”

“I am sure. I’m pretty sure I’m sure, anyway.”

Varric nodded and, just like that, the difficult part of the conversation was over. Moving to another part of the table, Amelle plucked a flaky croissant off a silver platter, gesturing with the pastry at the plans Varric had been perusing. “Find anything useful?” she asked, before helping herself to butter and raspberry preserves.

He shrugged. “According to the journals we found on our oh, so very forthcoming Tevinter friends,” Varric replied, “the exchange is supposed to take place here” he said, tapping one thick finger against the map.

Elinora walked into the dining room just in time to hear this exchange. “That makes sense,” she supplied, peering over Varric’s shoulder. “Today’s a holiday—the chantry doesn’t ‘close,’ per se, but it is running on a skeleton crew. Administrative staff are all off today. Certain offices will be closed off as well.”

“What about the priests and lay sisters?” Amelle asked. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Fenris silently slipping into the dining room; after meeting her eyes long enough that a blush rose to her cheeks, he gave only the most cursory glance at the newest addition and decided the coffeepot was far more worthy of his attention at the moment.

“They’ll all be scattered across Highever,” answered Elinora, motioning to a maid for an additional pot of coffee; with the crowd in attendance it was clear they’d need it. “It’s a big day for weddings, christenings, blessings—”

Amelle nodded. “Because it’s your nameday?”

Something akin to discomfiture settled on her features; she shrugged and looked away, helping herself to an iced sticky bun.“Because it’s a day off families might not have had otherwise—”

“And,” interjected a new voice, deep and cultured, “seen to be a day of luck. Which my lovely wife is leaving out, to nobody’s surprise, I’m sure.”

Elinora turned suddenly pink as she shot the newcomer a look exasperation, though fondness filtered through around its uncharitable edges _._ “Alistair.” She cleared her throat. “You’re awake.”

Amelle looked back sharply at the other man who’d come in, Nathaniel and Anders close behind. She’d only ever seen the governor of Ferelden’s likeness in pencil drawings and the occasional daguerrotype—but never in person. He was taller, broader than she’d expected, his handsome face—kind, if perhaps a bit weathered, though he didn’t look particularly _old_ —sending a particularly warm smile his wife’s way. “Indeed I am. Forgive me my horrible timing, my darling. And the interruption. I do humbly apologize.”

“I’m not sure how much I believe you,” she riposted, but her smile was warm. Then, addressing the rest of the room, she added, “I’ve told Alistair of the information you uncovered and he was, ah, rather insistent on aiding the matter any way he could.”

“Well,” Isabela drawled from the doorway, her voice still husky with sleep, “he has always been a _helper._ Hasn’t he?” she smiled, arching an eyebrow at the Commander of the Grey. “Coffee?”

Her remark resulted in both Elinora and Alistair descending into an awkward, pink-tinged hush. Varric closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing an almost inaudible, _“Rivaini.”_

After several beats of silence, Elinora coughed. “More on the way.”

“You know, somehow I feel like there’s a story here,” Anders murmured, looking between Isabela, Alistair, and Elinora.

“Indicative of your keen powers of observation, I’m sure,” Nathaniel remarked, shooting Anders a sidelong glower. “I’m just as sure it’s none of your business.”

“Hah. Not that that’s ever stopped me bef—“

“We did need an eighth man,” Amelle said brightly, eager to change the subject. “Though, you must understand I’m just a little concerned—and perhaps understandably so—you might be easily recognized.”

This comment caught the governor’s attention, and his resultant grin lent a mischievous, boyish quality to his face. “Oh, you leave that to me. I’m better at going about unnoticed than you might think.”

“In any case,” Elinora interjected, clearly glad to be back to the matter at hand, “Alistair isn’t wrong. It’s a popular day for blessings—for a multitude of reasons—which pulls most of the clergy away.”

“So who’s left behind?” Amelle asked.

“Our mole, ostensibly,” Elinora replied. “A few acolytes.Hardly anyone at all.”

Alistair went to his wife’s side, peering down at the building plans. “As Elinora said, tor the most part the chantry will be open and empty. Some areas will be locked off. Private quarters, most of the clerical offices.” He nodded at the room Varric had marked on the plans. “Unless I’m mistaken, I think this area’s most commonly used for storage. Or it was last time I was here.”

“Stands to reason it won’t be locked up tight, then,” Varric replied, marking the plans with a pencil.

With everyone present and accounted for, Varric went over the plan again, largely for the governor’s benefit. Contrary to what Amelle might have expected from the man, he did not offer criticism, but instead listened carefully, asking the occasional question or offering a suggestion.

Soon—too, too soon—there was nothing left to do but get ready.

Amelle needed Isabela’s assistance, of course—desperately, in fact; the dress she’d ordered from Annabel’s shop had most absolutely been altered for a corset, and Isabela was nothing but cheerful about that as she came—armed with cosmetics—to help Amelle dress, beginning with the corset. It was a job Isabela approached with vigor.

Lots of vigor.

“I told you,” Isabela muttered with a soft grunt, tying the corset laces off while Amelle could still sneak breath into her lungs, “this dress wants a proper bosom.”

Amelle pressed a hand to her abdomen and looked down at the _proper bosom_ the corset afforded. “And if the corset explodes and I put out someone’s eye midway through the meeting?”

“Stop being ridiculous. I did not tie you _that_ tight,” Isabela huffed, jutting out one hip as Amelle handed her the dress. Indeed, even in her arms, Antivan silk felt heavenly against the skin. “Now, come on, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to see the finished product.”

Amelle shot Isabela a dry look in the mirror. “Since the day before yesterday, I imagine.”

Isabela shook her head almost pityingly as she guided Amelle into yards of midnight blue Antivan silk. “Time passes more slowly when you’re waiting for pretty things, Hawke.” In the mirror, Isabela’s pitying look vanished in a flash of lechery. “It passes especially slowly, I imagine, when you’re waiting for certain handsome, broody things to—“

Amelle’s face went suddenly warm. “One more word,” she retorted primly, “and I swear to the Maker I will singe your eyebrows. Just button me up. Please.”

Isabela loosed a long, lamenting sigh, but her fingers worked nimbly up Amelle’s back, fastening buttons. “Half your problem, Hawke, is that you spend so much of your bloody time buttoned up to begin with. Honestly, I thought I would’ve rubbed off more on you by now.” She watched, arms folded and eyes critical, as Amelle slipped into the velvet flocked jacket—offering aid when Amelle’s own limited movement further hindered the process of dressing herself.“This dress is a work of art,” she said, making a multitude of minute adjustments to various bits of ribbon and lace before moving aside to let Amelle see a mirror. “Don’t waste it.”

Amelle had a feeling her friend wasn’t just talking about their errand.

Even though she hadn’t been particularly thrilled when the question of a corset entered the equation, even Amelle couldn’t argue just how admirably the jacket clung to the curves nature had not quite seen fit to provide her. In the mirror her waist flared more dramatically than usual, to say nothing of her newfound décolletage. Beyond the gown’s structure, the color—both cooler and darker than she usually favored—played dramatically against her skin tone. In the reflection, her green eyes appeared almost grey.

“See? A work of art. Also, Hawke, your tits look _great._ And you can thank me later for _that.”_ Isabela reached into her case, liberating her cosmetics collection. “Now, according to my new bestest best friend, Annabel, Tevinter’s favoring dramatic cosmetics this season. Less is not more; more is just enough. Also, apparently, kohl is all the rage right now.” She paused in her rifling long enough to roll her eyes. “Which only means they’re embarrassingly behind the times if you ask me.”

Amelle sat and remained perfectly still as Isabela applied powders and paints to her face; the longer they worked, the more gleeful Isabela appeared, before finally leaning back with a flourish, exclaiming, “Andraste’s frilly knickers, Amelle Hawke, even your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”

Prudently, Amelle refrained from sharing her reply, choosing instead to look in the mirror; what she saw chased that reply and very possibly all future commentary from her tongue.

Amelle scarcely recognized herself. She was still very much Amelle Hawke, but some other version of her—one Amelle couldn’t tell if she liked or not. The powders Isabela had applied only made her look fairer, but with a pearlescent shimmer to her skin; her eyes, ringed dramatically in kohl, stood out like two pale points, while her lips had been painted a deep, dark blood red.

“That should help you get into character,” Isabela remarked, packing her things away.

“I don’t see how it could do anything else,” Amelle breathed, still staring at her face, so transformed, so herself and yet… _not._ She wore her hair simply, combed close against her scalp before topping it with a velvet-flecked hat, which reminded her of nothing so much as a gentleman’s top hat constructed in miniature, adorned with a silver pin and dark blue feathers, finished with a cascade of blue netting.Once Amelle had the hat securely fastened, Isabela leaned back, arms folded, her lips pressed into a line, her eyes scrutinizing.

“Well,” she said after a too-long silence. “If this thing goes pear-shaped, Hawke, it won’t be because you didn’t look the part.”

Amelle looked again in the mirror at the woman reflected back at her. “Right. Now I just have to act the part.”

And for that, she had a very good idea who she needed to speak with before they all left on this mad errand.

#

Amelle found Fenris in the Cousland garden, sat upon a long stone bench, legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankle. He too was dressed for his part; Fenris wore the hood of his deep green cloak pulled forward and the folds hiding much of his face, which had been the entire plan to begin with. Beneath it, she knew he wore the same type of uniform the Tevinter riders had worn.

And yet, as he sat there on the bench, Amelle could not help but notice his lean grace, reminding her strongly of a cat dozing in a patch of sunshine.

But then she took a step and the illusion shattered. Fenris looked up at the sound of her boot upon the flagstones, and despite his face having been thrown into shadow, Amelle saw very clearly his reaction to her appearance. Eyes widening, he went very still. The kiss they’d shared on the bridge seemed immeasurably distant just then.

She flushed, though she could not say it was with pleasure. Her fingers plucked at her skirt and smoothed down the jacket. “I—since I’m to be a magister today,” she said into the hush, gesturing needlessly at herself.“I… I have to look part.”

Pushing back his hood, Fenris looked at her, eyes traveling from head to heel, though he said nothing for several seconds. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Your appearance is… flawless.”

Amelle found she could not form the words _thank you._  

“That said,” he went on, “it is not terribly difficult for one to adopt the mien of a magister.In this case acting the part is far more crucial than looking it.” He paused. “I confess I find it strange you did not come to me sooner.”

“For advice, you mean?” At his nod, she shook her head and sat next to him on the bench. “I did think about it.”

“And still you did not.Why?”

“I didn’t… want to ask.I didn’t want to ask you to help me behave more like the people you’ve been trying to be rid of for so long.”She scowled at the tips of her boots peeking out from beneath her skirts.“Truth be told, I’m not entirely keen on you seeing me _act_ like them.”

He didn’t reply, though he did allow himself an annoyed grunt before turning on the bench, bringing one hand up to cradle her face, his palm warm and dry against her cheek.It was an effort of will not to melt into his touch with a deep, contented sigh.“Hawke. You forget that I have seen enough of you to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that whatever you say or do today will be an act.”

“Then…” She decided _to hell with it,_ closing her eyes and pressing into the touch. “Then _do_ you have any advice, ser?”

“I do,” he murmured, thumb stroking a path along her cheekbone. “Your pride must be incalculable, equal only to your capacity for cruelty.Those who do not possess magic are scarcely worth your time or effort, and you must take care to make them keenly aware of it.They are beneath you, little better than vermin.When you walk into a room, it is with the knowledge you are the most powerful one there—”

Blinking her eyes open, Amelle reached up to touch his hand. “And, out of curiosity, if I know full-well I’m _not?_ ”

“You misunderstand me.” Taking her hand, Fenris threaded his fingers with hers and clasped it tightly.When he spoke again, his voice was harder, colder—though that coldness was not, Amelle knew, directed at her. “The Imperium itself runs on such charades.Political power and influence as frequently as not go to the magister who presents himself to be without peer.”

“So the point is to behave as if I have the power to reduce everyone in the room to cinders and hope beyond hope no one decides to call me out on that?”

“Just so,” he said, inclining his head.

A flock of starlings flew overhead and Amelle looked up, grateful for the distraction. “Just so we understand each other,” she said, when the sky was once again clear, “I had no desire to see the Tevinter Imperium before this point. But at this rate, the Black City can open its gates and start raining candy before I set foot there.”

Fenris’ mouth kicked up at one corner, almost a smile. “I remain unsurprised.”

“What you’re telling me is that I have to be the coldest, cruelest, most calculating, prideful, preening bitch I can possibly be.”

Fenris nodded, adding, “Disdainful you must set foot anywhere that does not bow down to the power you possess, any place that would dare hold you apart as an anathema for the very qualities you admire most in yourself.”He glanced skyward, but no birds appeared to provide any sort of distraction. A muscle worked in his jaw.“I have not yet decided whether in a meeting such as this it would seem unusual for a magister not to have at least one slave.”

“We can hardly spare anyone to play that part,” she replied firmly—too firmly to allow room for any sort of argument. “But I imagine, as the meeting is meant to be rather covert, even a magister would be aware of what would run the risk of being too… obvious.”

“One would hope.”

“Besides, if anyone brings it up, my response should be vehement enough to silence all doubt.”

“Yes.”

They sat together in the hush of the garden as Amelle turned this information over and over in her head. “It’s not terribly far from how I’d been planning to play it, only… _more._ ” Quite a bit more, as it happened.

“Your inclination is to hide what you are,” Fenris replied, stroking one thumb over her knuckles.“I fear that inclination, if anything, would prove to be the most difficult quality for you to conceal.”

A soft bark of laughter passed her lips. “Well, you’re not wrong about that.” She looked briefly at the window and saw movement within the library. It was nearly time. “Fenris,” she said after a moment. “I need you to know, to understand that… that whatever I say or do today, it’s—“

“It is a part you are playing,” he said, reluctantly relinquishing her hand. “And nothing more.” He smiled again, a small, private curve of his lips that made something flip pleasantly in her stomach. “Believe it or not, Hawke,” Fenris said, his voice growing warmer, “I am familiar with the concept of theater.”

“You have no idea how relieved that makes me.”

“I think I do.”

Fenris looked as if he might have said more, but then the door to the house opened, and Varric stepped out into the sunlight, wincing a little at its brightness. “Okay, kids,” he said, adjusting his own green cloak. “It’s high time to get this show on the road.”

Amelle drew in a breath. She was to be preening. Calculating. Aloof. Cruel. Powerful.

_They’re all beneath me. I could grind them beneath my heel with scarcely a thought._

_Vermin. Less than vermin._

She exhaled, meeting Varric’s eyes. “All right. Let’s go.”

_Showtime._


End file.
